


The Secret's in the Telling

by BrighteyedJill



Series: The Secret's in the Telling 'Verse [1]
Category: Heroes - Fandom, Supernatural
Genre: Brother Feels, Case Fic, Crossover, Demons, M/M, Mystery, Petrellicest, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-06-27
Updated: 2008-07-03
Packaged: 2017-11-04 14:40:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 48,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/394990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrighteyedJill/pseuds/BrighteyedJill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In following the trail of what they think is a rogue special, Nathan and Peter run into a pair of brothers who claim to be demon hunters. As the Petrellis learn more about the menace they've been tracking, they realize all four of them might be in danger, and some things can no longer be kept secret.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings:** Fictional relatives in lust (consensual incest), violence (including mild torture), harsh language  
>  **Universe:** SPN – vaguely Season 3 (sometime between 3x5 _Bedtime Stories_ and 3x10 _Dream a Little Dream of Me_ ). Heroes – vaguely post Season 2 (general spoilers)  
>  **Author’s note:** Thanks to [](http://redandglenda.livejournal.com/profile)[**redandglenda**](http://redandglenda.livejournal.com/) for the beta, and [](http://jaune_chat.livejournal.com/profile)[**jaune_chat**](http://jaune_chat.livejournal.com/) for cheerleading. You needn’t know both fandoms in order to enjoy the story, although I imagine that it helps to know one or the other. Here's some tips:
> 
>  **Heroes:** Nathan Petrelli is a lawyer, former Navy pilot, and failed politician. His brother Peter was a hospice nurse, at least until they both discovered they could fly. In fact, Peter's power is that he can imitate the powers of others he's met, giving him access to a wide array of abilities. A mysterious and possibly sinister Company hunts down and imprisons those with abilities, and so the Petrellis try to keep a low profile. 
> 
> **Supernatural:** Sam and Dean Winchester lost their mother to a demon attack at a young age, and were raised by their father to fight supernatural menaces. They travel the country in their (very cool) vintage Impala, saving people and hunting things. Through the years they've become infamous among the demons they hunt. The currently have possession of the Colt, a special gun that can kill any type of supernatural being.

[ ](http://s562.photobucket.com/albums/ss62/HSFAWinter2009/?action=view&current=crossover-brighteyed_jill.png)

  


 

There was screaming coming from further into the cemetery. “Sounds like we found her,” Dean announced. He tossed Sam the book with the exorcism ritual and took off. Was it strange, Sam wondered, that they always ran _toward_ the screaming?

 

_“Dean could you just stop and think for once? I mean, before you rush into certain death?” Sam asked wistfully._

__

 

_“Screaming’s where the fun is,” Dean said, slapping a clip into his gun with a cocky grin._

__

 

_Sam scowled at him. “Yeah, I prefer things quiet, actually.”_

__

 

_Dean shrugged. “Coulda fooled me. I was worried that desk clerk was gonna call the cops, noise you were making last night.” Sam couldn’t help but crack a grin at that._

 

Side by side the Winchester brothers sprinted toward the noise, dodging mausoleums and hurdling low tombstones.

 

Blue lightning flashed somewhere ahead of them, lighting the way with an eerie glow. The screaming stopped. Sam put on an extra burst of speed, his long legs flying over the uneven ground. He was yards ahead of Dean when he finally burst onto the scene.

 

The demon, a dark-haired beauty with eyes that flashed yellow, was on top of a young man, pinning him to the ground with one hand on his chest. Sam saw the glint of a silver knife in the demon’s other hand before his eyes darted to an unmoving form slumped on the ground a few feet away. Blue lightning flashed again, and Sam could swear it had come from the man the demon had trapped. The demon shrieked in pain, and when she reared her head back, she caught sight of Sam. With a snarl, she abandoned her prey and took off into the darkness.

 

The man she’d had pinned was up and after her in an instant. Sam took one step after them before he remembered the man on the ground. He had to at least check.

 

Dean skidded to a stop beside Sam and took in the situation in one quick glance. “Which way?”

 

Sam pointed.

 

“You stay with him, in case she comes back. We can’t let her finish another sacrifice.”

 

Sam nodded once, and Dean was off. “You sure you don’t want the—,” he began, but Dean was out of sight. “Colt?”  
\-----

 

Peter could hear the woman panting as she ran, some ways ahead of him. The girl was fast, and even a full blast of electricity had barely fazed her. So far she’d displayed a wider array of abilities than anyone Peter had met. Well, almost anyone. She seemed to have more than one thing in common with Sylar. For instance, being completely evil. If Peter hadn’t heard Nathan scream, if he’d arrived a moment later… Peter put on an extra burst of speed. He couldn’t let this one get away.

 

The woman dodged behind a mausoleum, and Peter followed. He never got a chance to attack. The woman had a hand around his throat, supernaturally strong, pressing him against hard stone. “You’ll do,” she whispered. “Now stop your fireworks or I’ll take your brother instead.”

 

Cautiously, Peter let the electricity slip away. “What do you want?”

 

“Just need your help with a little something, sweetest.” Then there was a knife in her hand, a fancy silver thing, pressed against Peter’s throat.

 

  
 _“There’s always blood. It’s got to have something to do with blood,” Nathan said wearily, and leaned back in the creaky chair. He’d been poring over police reports long before Peter woke up that morning. “Same sort of thing with all the victims.”_

__

 

_“I’m not worried about bleeding,” Peter said._

__

 

_“You should be,” Nathan said with a scowl. “I spend too much time watching you bleed.”_

__

 

_“Don’t worry. I’ll be careful. As long as you are, too.” He wrapped his arms around Nathan and planted a kiss on the back of his neck. “I want to keep your skin in one piece.”_

 

“Hey!”

 

Peter and the woman both turned to look. A few feet away stood a wiry, scruffy, _smirking_ man holding a shotgun in one hand and a clear glass bottle in the other. “Back off, bitch.” He slashed the contents of the bottle at them. Peter flinched, but the water dripped harmlessly onto his clothes; the rest landed with a sizzle on the dark-haired woman, sending her reeling. The man raised his shotgun and fired, sending a scatter of something flying at the woman. She screamed. He stepped between her and Peter and fired again. This time she ran, and the man pursued her. Peter spent only a short moment wondering what the hell was going on before he followed.  
\---

 

Nathan was lying on the cold, hard ground, and it was dark. His head hurt. Everything hurt, actually. A tall stranger, a young man with shaggy hair, was kneeling beside him.

 

“You okay? Hey, sir? You awake?”

 

The guy reached out a hand to the stinging lines on Nathan’s chest where that bitch had cut him. His hand came away red. “You’re bleeding. Did you hit your head, too?”

 

“Where’s Peter?” Nathan’s voice was hoarse, but he managed not to slur his words.

 

“The guy with the bangs? He’s gone. It’s okay. Dean went after them.”

 

Nathan shook his head and immediately regretted it as his brain seemed to slosh around in his skull. Nathan had no idea who the hell Dean was, but if this woman—whatever her abilities were—had surprised Nathan and escaped Peter, he seriously doubted this “Dean” would fare much better. Unless… Nathan took another look at the stranger, still hovering solicitously, hands wrapped around a leather-bound book, and noticed the outline of a gun in his pocket and a knife sheath bulging at his hip. He wasn’t sure what the book was all about, but this guy was no civilian.

 

_Peter clung hard to Nathan, shaking. “He didn’t look like—I mean, he was young. It’s not like he was wearing a suit and sunglasses and an earpiece.”_

__

 

_“It’s okay. You couldn’t have known.”_

__

 

_“It was too close.” Peter burrowed his face into Nathan’s neck. “He could’ve knocked me out with whatever he had in that needle. I don’t want to go back there.”_

__

 

_“Shhh.” Nathan stroked a soothing hand through his brother’s hair. “They won’t get you. I won’t let them.”_

 

Nathan didn’t think this guy was Company material, but he couldn’t be sure. He struggled to his feet, and the stranger helped him up with a strong arm around his shoulders. His head swam. His chest hurt, too—hurt in straight, fiery lines where that bitch had cut him. He managed to steady himself enough to step away from the other guy, though it meant leaning with his hands on his knees. “You should get out of here. It’s not safe.”

 

The stranger looked him up and down, and Nathan could see the moment he noticed Nathan’s gun bulging in the shoulder holster under his shredded hunting jacket. The guy took a slow step backward, and he certainly looked a little more wary than he had a moment before. “Yeah, not safe,” the man said. “Maybe we should get you to a hospital. Let me just make a quick call…”

 

The guy’s cell phone was in his hand before Nathan could make a move. And that was a bad sign: fast hands, killers' hands. If it had been a gun, Nathan would be dead now. At least that meant this guy didn’t want to kill him. Still, he didn’t want this guy calling for backup.

 

“You listening?” Nathan snapped. It was harder to sound pushy when the stranger towered over him. “What’s out there is very dangerous.”

 

“I know,” he said. “Just take it easy. Dean will take care of it.”

 

Nathan took a step backward, straightening up despite the pain of his injuries. “Right. Okay. Let’s just both take it easy.” He took another casual step back.

 

The stranger tensed, and Nathan saw his hand twitch. He was about to go for his gun, more than likely. That wouldn’t end well. Still, Superman was faster than a speeding bullet, right?

 

_“I’m not Superman,” Nathan grumbled, pulling a pillow tighter over his head. “Leave me alone.”_

__

 

 _“No, you_ are _Superman,” Peter said, poking Nathan in the ribs._

__

 

_“I’m not! And I’m not a teenager anymore, either. Jesus, Peter. You’re insatiable.”_

 

“Listen, maybe we should just—.” The stranger moved a hand toward his jacket, and Nathan knew what he had to do. He gathered his strength and jumped toward the guy, taking him down with a literal flying tackle. The stranger’s head thunked dully against a tombstone. As soon as he untangled himself from the mass of long limbs, Nathan snatched out his own gun, pointing it at the man, but there was no need. The guy was out for the count.

 

Nathan drug himself to his feet, keeping his gun out, and started to walk away. He made it only a few steps before his better judgment caught up with him. He couldn’t leave the poor kid here, even if he was a Company man. That bitch might come back. With a sigh, and one more pained grumble at the fiery cuts along his chest, he grabbed hold of the unconscious man’s dead weight. Nathan was never going to hear the end of this cargo jet thing.  
\---

 

If only it wasn’t so damn dark. No moon, no stars, just the orange glow of the city somewhere beyond the trees. Dean kept stumbling over grave markers buried in the weeds, and once he slammed his knee against a stone cross. Still, he could hear—or he thought he could hear—the demon ahead of him. He kept a tight hold on the shotgun and loaded another casing packed with rock salt.

_“You hold on to that shotgun like a damn teddy bear, Dean.”_

__

 

_“So?” Dean shrugged. He wasn’t planning on parting with this particular teddy bear any time soon._

__

 

_“So you’re not bringing it to bed,” Sam said._

__

 

_Dean loved it when his brother got all demanding. “Oh I’m not?” He laid the gun in the crook of his arm, and began to run a loose fist up and down the barrel, slowly and languidly._

__

 

_“Stop it,” Sam said, but his eyes never left Dean’s hand._

 

Suddenly, a twig snapped behind him. He swung the gun around, but lowered it when he saw it was the pretty boy the demon had been about to bleed. “She went that way,” the guy said, pointing.

 

“I know,” Dean snapped, although he wasn’t so sure. Who did this guy think he was, anyway? “Stay behind me, and don’t get too close to her.”

 

The guy nodded, intensely earnest, and Dean rolled his eyes.

 

They struck out into the darkness. Once in a while the guy would point; his hearing seemed to be much better than Dean’s. They jogged along until they almost ran face-first into the cemetery wall. Dean stood still a moment, listening, but he heard nothing.

 

“She went over the wall,” pretty boy said. Dean spared him a skeptical glare.

 

Tires screeched on the street outside, and a horn sounded. Dean jumped immediately to the wall, scrabbling for foot-holds as he pulled himself over with his free hand.

 

“Wait!” the guy shouted, but Dean was already over. The street was a little commercial strip with a few bars whose patrons had spilled out onto the street. Two cars had stopped in the middle of the road. The demon was speaking to the driver of one of the cars, who had his cell phone in his hand. When the demon caught sight of Dean, she winked. Then she started screaming.

 

“There he is! Oh my God, he’s got a gun!”

 

For a moment, everyone on the street stood frozen, looking at Dean. Then chaos broke out. People ran in every direction. Dean lost sight of the demon. In the distance, a siren sprang to life.

 

Two big guys, wanna-be citizen hero types, approached Dean, hands out all peaceable-like. “Hey buddy. Let’s not do anything crazy here,” one of them said

 

Dean felt a hand at his elbow, and turned to push away his assailant. It was the pretty boy. “He’s okay. There’s no problem. I got him,” the guy said to the by-standers. His voice was strangely compelling. To Dean, he said, “Come on,” and pulled him toward the street. “We gotta get out of here.”

 

Dean nodded his agreement, but he shook the guy’s hand off his arm. “Let’s go.” He eyed the cemetery wall, but the guy grabbed his arm again.

 

“If they search in there, they’ll find my brother,” he said, lowering his voice.

 

The man Sam had stayed to take care of was this guy’s brother. Dean understood the fear in his eyes, then—understood it all too well. He let the guy pull him away from street, where the gathered crowd was looking slightly dazed. They darted across the street, leaving more honking horns behind them, and dodged into an alley. “You have a car?” the guy asked him, once they were out of sight.

 

“Yeah,” Dean said, looking around to get his bearings. “It’s in a garage… somewhere around here.”

 

“Is it close?”

 

“I dunno. I’m all turned around.”

 

“We can’t exactly go strolling around looking for it. You’re carrying a shotgun.”

 

“And you better be glad I am,” Dean snapped. And Dean was set to take just exactly zero more crap from this dude regarding his methods. “I’m not ditching the shotgun. We’ll just keep out of sight.”

 

The guy looked thoughtful for a moment. “Your car. Is it in the garage on Fourth and Broad? With a big orange sign?”

 

That sounded familiar. “Yeah… You from around here?”

 

“Something like that. I’m Peter.”

 

“Dean. Let’s go.”  
\-----

 

Sam woke up with a headache. At first he couldn’t remember what had happened. Waking up with a headache in a crappy motel room wasn’t an unusual occurrence for him. This particular room had some kind of nautical theme, if the anchors decorating the headboard were any indication. Probably a name like Captain Ahab’s Roadside Flophouse—something Dean would pick out.

 

 _“Dude, why would you go for a boring crappy motel when you could go for a_ themed _crappy motel?”_

__

 

_“I just think we should trade off who gets to pick, is all. Maybe I don’t find it soothing to be sleeping in a room that looks like a White Castle.”_

__

 

_“Guinevere’s Tower Palace Motel is a very classy place.”_

__

 

_“Do you even know who Guinevere is?”_

__

 

_“Sure. Guinevere Turner played Tanya Cheex in that one movie...” Dean snapped his fingers, trying to remember. “Preaching to the Perverted!”_

__

 

_Sam shook his head sadly. “You’re not even a little classy, you know that?”_

 

But the man sitting at the room’s rickety table cleaning guns wasn’t Dean. The man he’d rescued yesterday—or was it earlier today?—glanced over at Sam. “You’re awake.” He didn’t put down the slide he was polishing. “Good. I was worried you might have had a concussion.”

 

Sam sat up cautiously. He wasn’t tied down, and the guy didn’t have a weapon pointed at him, so things weren’t as bad as they could be. Still, he winced when he ran a hand through his hair and felt a lump at the back of his head. “You knocked me out.”

 

The man shrugged. “I used to be in the Navy.”

 

Sam stood, swaying with momentary dizziness, and the man fixed him with a warning glare. Now that he was up, he could see the Colt lying on the table beside the gun the guy was cleaning. His knife was on the table, too, along with the exorcism book, but his cell phone was nowhere to be seen.

 

The man wiped his hands on an oily rag before turning his full attention to Sam. “What’s your name?”

 

“Sam. Winchester. Who the hell are you?”

 

“Okay Sam. I have to ask you something, so bear with me here. Do you work for the Company?”

 

Sam blinked at him. “Excuse me?”

 

“The Company. Are you now or have you ever been a member of the Company?” He spoke slowly and clearly, as if Sam just might be an idiot.

 

Sam tried to calculate the distance between him and the knife, then remembered the lump on the back of his head and thought better of it. “Sir, I really have no idea what you’re talking about.”

 

“Ever hear of a guy named Robert Bishop?”

 

“What?”

 

The guy sighed. “Okay, fine. Who’s Dean?”

 

Sam wondered if he could make it for the door before this guy could stop him. Maybe, but he’d be pretty useless without a weapon or a way to get in touch with Dean. And there was no way he was leaving the Colt. Besides, he didn’t even know where he was—he could be in another state, even. Probably not another country, though. No other country—not even Canada— had crappy motels quite like America. “Dean’s my brother,” he said at last.

 

The man nodded slowly. “Okay. So last night you said Dean went after them. What did you mean by that?”

 

Sam shrugged. He thought it was pretty self-explanatory. “The other guy—Peter, right? When he went after that woman, Dean went after them both, to see if he could help. Listen, if you just let me call my brother, we can clear this whole thing up.”

 

“I had to ditch your phone. We can’t risk any wireless signals.”

 

This guy was crazy. Seriously, Grade-A bonkers. “Hey, listen. That woman is really dangerous. My brother and I, we just want to stop her from hurting anyone else.”

 

“You’re not a cop.” The guy picked up a badge from the table and waved it. That had been in Sam’s jacket as well. “I’m pretty sure you’re not even a real bikini inspector. So why are you after her?”

 

“Because we can stop her,” Sam snapped.

 

“You know what she is?”

 

The question caught Sam off guard. “Do you?”

 

“Yeah. Peter and I have dealt with lots of people like her before.”

 

“You’re hunters?!” That possibility hadn’t occurred to Sam, but it made a certain kind of sense. Still, the hunting community was small, and this guy didn’t look even vaguely familiar to Sam. And maybe it was vain, but Sam thought every hunter in the world knew about the Winchester boys. “What did you say your name was?”

 

“Didn’t say.” The man stopped studying Sam, picked up the cloth and went back to cleaning the guns. “That what you and your brother are? Hunters?”

 

“Yeah.” Sam didn’t like the way the man said the word: with derision, as if he doubted it applied to Sam.

 

“You kill people like that woman?”

 

“Yeah,” he said fiercely, but immediately thought better of it when he reconsidered the question. “I mean, no! We don’t kill _people._ ”

 

“Uh huh.” He didn’t sound impressed. “So tell me what you know about her.”

 

Sam crossed his arms over his chest and sat back down on the bed. If there was one thing he was good at, it was research. Whoever this hunter was, Sam would bet the Impala that he didn’t have half the background info Sam did. “She’s killed six families in the past six months. First one, the Doanhues, in Birmingham in April. First the mom goes missing. State troopers find her body on the side of the road three days later, bled to death, all these cuts in a pattern all over her. By the end of the week, whole family’s dead: three kids, two aunts—Mrs. Donahue’s sisters—and one set of grandparents.”

 

“So you have done your homework.” The man gave Sam a small smile, and Sam got the feeling he was being jerked around. “What’s that woman in the cemetery got to do with all that, according to you and your brother?”

 

“Last month, we almost had her,” Sam said testily. He was sure, at least, that this guy hadn’t come as close as he and Dean had. “She snatched Brandon Basden, a high school student from Pickerington, Ohio. Third of five children. We tracked her, found where she’d taken him, but we didn’t get there in time to save Basden. He had the same pattern of cuts as Amy Donahue, bled to death. We tried to stop her, but she got away. We think she had help—at least one other demon who runs with her. He nearly broke Dean’s jaw before they took off.”

 

The man kept cleaning for a moment in silence before asking, “And the rest of the Basdens?”

 

“They’re dead,” Sam said tightly.

 

“How’d she manage that if she skipped town?”

 

“Maybe she had help. Or maybe it’s something else. You tell me, if you know so much,” Sam snapped.

 

The man picked up the book from the table and regarded it thoughtfully. “Do you even speak Latin?”

 

“Some,” Sam snapped. More than he wanted to, in fact.

 

“You know this is an exorcism ritual, right?”

 

“Uh, yeah.” Sam looked from the man to the book and back again. Now he knew this guy was fucking with him. “Why, what were you planning to do if you caught up with this woman?”

 

The man set the book back on the table and shook his head. “Okay.” He stood abruptly, pushing his chair back from the table with a grating screech against the wooden floor. “Maybe you don’t work for the Company. But I’m not convinced that you know what you’re talking about, either. So go on.” He grabbed the Colt from the table and held it out to Sam.

 

“You want me to leave?” Sam frowned in confusion.

 

“Yeah. You’re obviously not going to be any help, and I don’t need you in my way. So take your antique gun and get out.”

 

Sam knew it was stupid, but he couldn’t help but feel offended by this man’s dismissal. Sam was a damn good hunter, and if this guy knew what was good for him, he’d want to help Sam, not jerk him around like this. Still, it was probably best to quit while he was ahead. Sam snatched the Colt—empty of ammo, he noticed—and stalked to the door.

 

He realized once daylight hit his face that he’d been half expecting Dean to be waiting outside in the Impala. Instead, a Bentley—a shiny black two-door—was parked in the spot right outside the room in an otherwise empty parking lot. A two-lane highway stretched into the distance to the left and right, cutting through empty fields. There was no other building in sight.

 

_“See that?” Dean waved a hand at the expanses of cornfields that surrounded them. “Miles and miles of nothing. This is stupid.”_

__

 

_“No, you’re stupid, Dean.”_

__

 

_“It’s not my fault the Impala got towed!”_

__

 

_“Yes it is!”_

__

 

_“And did they really need to tow it all the way to the next town? Come on, dude.”_

__

 

_“That’s what happens when you park it in the middle of some poor farmer’s soybeans. Farmers are vicious!”_

__

 

_“It’s downright un-American,” Dean mumbled. “Guy should be able to park his car like a free man… How far to Marshalltown?”_

__

 

_“Eighteen miles.”_

__

 

_“Fine. Let’s go.”_

 

Sam shut the motel room door.

 

He counted to ten, swallowed his frustration, and turned back to the man. “Okay. Very funny. Where are we?”

 

“Pennsylvania,” the man said without looking up.

 

“And why are we in Pennsylvania?”

 

“Because that’s where I left the car.” The guy sighed and stood up from the table. He was a bit shorter than Sam, but he held himself like he was the president or something, even in jeans and a rumpled flannel shirt. “Here’s the situation, Sam Winchester. Peter went after that woman, and he’ll take care of it. If he needs my help, he won’t be shy about asking.”

 

“Fine. Whatever. Dean—.”

 

“Your brother is probably with my brother,” the man said, as if that settled it.

 

That gave Sam pause. “Peter’s your brother?”

 

“You’re the youngest, aren’t you?”

 

“What does that have to do with anything?”

 

“It makes me feel better, actually. My little brother needs sense smacked into him once in a while, and I imagine your brother has a certain amount of practice doing that.”

 

Sam’s mouth worked soundlessly as he tried to come up with an appropriate response.

 

“My name’s Nathan.” The man put his hand out, and Sam shook it automatically. “Stay a while,” Nathan said, resuming his seat at the table. “If our brothers need us, they’ll come get us. Otherwise, we stay out of the way and wait.”

 

“Wonderful.” Sam sat down on the bed and sighed. “So now that you’ve trashed my cell phone, how are they supposed to find us?”

 

“Peter always knows where I am.”

 

“You seem pretty sure about that.”

 

“I have faith in Peter.” He shot Sam an unreadable look. “Besides, don’t tell me a little thing like a missing cell phone would stop your brother from finding you if he wanted to.”

 

Sam couldn’t help but smile at that. “No, I guess it wouldn’t.” He settled in to wait.  
\--

 

“So, demons are real,” Peter said slowly. “Huh.” He took another swig of his beer.

 

“Yep.”

 

“Huh.”

 

Dean swallowed the rest of his beer, and looked around for their waitress. He couldn’t catch her eye through the crush of people. No problem. They weren’t in a hurry. He’d decided they needed to wait for the ruckus from earlier to die down before they went back to the graveyard to look for Sam. If they had to wait, they might as well have some fun. And if the pretty boy—Peter—didn’t look to be having fun, at least he didn’t look scared out of his mind, the way you might expect of a guy if a demon had recently tried to slit his throat. “You okay? You seem like all of this doesn’t really bother you,” Dean said.

 

“Yeah. I’ve seen some crazy things in the past year or so. Makes demons seem not so far-fetched.” His smile slipped away. “And I’m used to people trying to kill me.”

 

“Well good. You’ve survived this long, means you’re probably tougher than you look.” Which wasn’t very tough at all, to Dean’s mind. But sturdy. _Like he could take a beating._ Dean thought. _Or for that matter…_ And that was not a productive train of thought, so Dean went back to trying to flag down the waitress.

 

When she finally came, she flashed a smile at Peter. “Want some more?” she asked him, leaning down so that her cleavage swelled precariously out of her top.

 

“Sure, I think someone drank my beer,” Peter said with a guileless smile. For a moment, Dean was incredulous that the waitress wasn’t flirting with _him_ , but then, he had to admit Peter was a pretty, pretty man.

 

“Just a beer, then?” The waitress asked with a swivel of her hips. Peter had to see the flirtation there—Dean couldn’t believe he was that blind—but he didn’t seem too interested.

 

_“Dude, are you crazy? She practically wrote you an invitation just then!”_

__

 

_Sam scowled. “No she didn’t. She was just being nice.”_

__

 

 _“No Sammy,_ you _were just being nice. She was flirting her little ass off. Oh, and what an ass…”_

__

 

_“You’re disgusting. You’re like a living, breathing male chauvinist stereotype.”_

__

 

_“Does this mean I’m not getting any?”_

__

 

_“Well you’re certainly not getting any from her,” Sam said with a smirk._

__

 

_“And neither are you, Captain Smooth,” Dean snapped. Sam just rolled his eyes and polished off the last of his beer. “’S allright. I have to go home with you, anyway, and I can only handle one bitch at a time.” Sam snorted beer out of his nose._

 

Once the waitress was gone, a pouty look making her lips look damn attractive, Peter turned thoughtful again. “So, you know what kind of demon this is? There’s different types, right?”

 

“Oh hell yeah. But Sam’s the researcher. He’ll tell you everything you never wanted to know about anything we’ve ever hunted,” Dean said with a smirk. “He’s got a whole backpack full of files on this one.”

 

“Wow.” Peter sounded genuinely impressed. “I bet you two make a good team.”

 

“Yeah.” Dean grinned proudly, but his smile faded. He knew Sammy was fine, was good enough to take care of himself when they got separated, but he’d still feel better when he could watch his brother’s back again.

 

“So what do you know about this one?” Peter prompted.

 

Dean took another sip of his beer before answering. “Sam knows all this stuff,” he muttered.

 

“I don’t need a genealogy,” Peter said with an apologetic half-smile smile. “Just anything you know. What she wants, why she’s killing people, how we stop her. You know, the important stuff.”

 

 _Still talking. Crooked lips. Hot_ , Dean thought. _No wonder girls dig him_. “The way I understand it, she’s some sort of love demon. She’s attracted to really strong love, then she does some kind of ritual that gives her power over the rest of a person’s family, somehow, and then she offs them. Sam is working on some sort of theory on how she chooses her victims, but he doesn’t have anything really solid yet.”

 

“Huh,” Peter said again. The waitress brought them new beers, and Dean was unsurprised to see that the cocktail napkin she placed under Peter’s bottle had a number and a name written on it.

 

“Wait,” Peter said after they’d downed some of the fresh beer. “You said this thing, this whatever-it-is, is attracted to love. What kind of love?”

 

“All kinds. Family, sex, whatever. The stronger the better.” _Or at least that’s the only theory we’ve got right now._ “We’ll just meet back up with Sammy and figure this thing out. I got this neat thing I’ve been meaning to try out, got it as a gift from this warlock for clearing out a werewolf. It’s called a lodestone.” Dean dug an oblong stone on a string out of his pocket and brandished it at Peter. “Just need some of his blood, and this baby will show us the way. I’m sure there’s something in Sammy’s stuff with fresh blood on it, and—.”

 

“Oh. Uh… Dean?” Peter swallowed hard. “The demon… The, uh, love demon? We can’t go back to our brothers.”

 

“Why can’t—. Oh.” Dean’s eyes widened in understanding. “We’d make ourselves a nice juicy target.” _And you don’t know the half of it, dude,_ Dean thought.

 

“She’s tried for me and Nathan once. And now she’s seen you and your brother. If we give her half a chance, I think she’ll try to finish what she started.”

 

“Yeah, demons are bitches like that.”

 

“But the two of us should be safe while we track her down,” Peter said thoughtfully.

 

“Yeah. But listen—you’re not a part of this, and I don’t want you to—.”

 

“Not a part of this?” Peter bristled. Dean recognized the same sort of indignation Sam used to get when he wasn’t old enough to go on hunts. It must be a younger brother thing. “Nathan and I found this thing. We figured out that it was killing people, and we figured out how to track it.”

 

“Yeah. How is that, by the way?”

 

“It’s complicated. Point is, I can help. I know what we’re up against.”

 

“Dude, five minutes ago you didn’t even know she was a demon.”

 

“Fine. But maybe there I things I know that you don’t.”

 

“Listen Peter.” Dean took Peter’s shoulders in his hands and put on his best big brother tone. “I’ve been doing this for a long time, and I can take care of myself.”

 

Peter narrowed his eyes. “But how long have you been with your brother?”

 

Dean froze. “Excuse me?”

 

“He’s your partner, right?” Peter asked. Dean’s face must have gotten across something other than _holy fuck how does he know that_ , because Peter elaborated, “Partner in crime?”

 

“Yeah, of course,” Dean said quickly, as the tension drained out of him. “We’ve worked together since we were kids.” A wistful look flashed across Peter’s face so fast that Dean wasn’t sure he’d seen it.

 

“He watches your back, right?” Peter asked, and waited for Dean’s nod. “Well you get used to that. Having someone to look out for you, to keep you on track, to see things you might miss. It’s hard flying solo after that.”

 

“You and your brother… You, uh, work together too?”

 

“Yeah. Kinda like what you guys do, but not ghosts and demons, just… something else,” he trailed off and sipped at his beer.

 

“Okay then,” Dean said. He wasn’t sure exactly what Peter was talking about, but the bottom line was that it didn’t matter. Peter seemed to know how to hunt, sort of, and he was good in a tight spot. That counted for a lot. And if going back to Sam would put them both in danger, he couldn’t do it right now. He hoped he didn’t regret this. “Here’s the deal: you can come with, but you gotta listen to me. I say run, you run, and you don’t ask questions. Okay?”

 

“Okay.” There was something in Peter’s earnest seriousness that reminded him of Sam. Dean got a sudden feeling that this just might work.  
\--

 

“I wish I had my research with me,” Sam said. He’d been flipping through the motel room’s three grainy channels all morning, and Nathan, who’d been trying to read the paper, thought the kid just might vibrate out of his skin soon. “I think I was on the verge of finding out how the demon was choosing her victims.”

 

“Right,” Nathan said. “Because demons are real.” That had been part of yesterday’s conversation he really didn’t want to revisit. If he hadn’t been sure of Sam Winchester’s sanity before, now he was pretty convinced the kid was nuts. He just prayed that Sam’s brother was saner.

 

“I really do not understand you.”

 

“And you probably never will.” The barb had no real heat behind it, but when Nathan turned to look, Sam was giving him wide, liquid puppy eyes that begged him to understand. Nathan had never stood a chance against his own brother’s puppy eyes, and these might even be worse. He pulled a box from under the table. “If you want to take a look, this is what I have on her.”

 

“Wow,” Sam said. It was actually an impressive collection of research, and all of it meticulously organized, filed by date and labeled in small, neat handwriting. Sam came over from the couch and picked up a folder at random. Nathan knew the one: about Bryce Kidman’s death in Branson, Missouri. He knew all the files, had spent many long hours poring over them, trying to find a pattern.

 

Sam skimmed the first page of the file, then turned an incredulous gaze on Nathan. “This is the FBI file from Branson. I tried for a week to get my hands on that. Where’d you get all this?”

 

“We know what we’re doing,” Nathan said, managing not to sound too smug.

 

“Yeah, well...” Sam sounded grudgingly impressed. “Who keeps these files? Your brother?”

 

Nathan raised an eyebrow. “No. Peter tends to work by instinct. I keep the research.” In fact, Peter looked on Nathan’s case files as a slightly eccentric indulgence.

 

_“I mean, seriously, what good does it do us to know if some special has an FBI file? What do they know that we don’t?”_

__

 

_“Aliases, MOs, known associates,” Nathan said evenly as he paper-clipped a crime scene write-up to a packet of information about their current lead._

__

 

_“Yeah, but… So? We don’t have to look for them like this.” Peter waved a disgusted hand at the research. “Chasing credit card receipts and mug shots. I can do it the old fashioned way.”_

__

 

_“Peter, this is the old fashioned way.”_

__

 

_“Whatever. My way. Faster and easier. Why do you always have to make everything so hard?”_

__

 

_Nathan sighed and put down the file he was working on. “Peter, if filing makes you hard, then you can do this, and I’ll go to bed. We’ve got a long day tomorrow.”_

__

 

_Peter’s expression went from exasperation to anticipation in less than a second. “Forget I said anything. And forget the filing. I think bed is calling.”_

 

Sam had started at the front of the box and was methodically examining the files. “It’s really organized.”

 

“I used to be a lawyer,” Nathan said. That wasn’t giving too much away. “Old habits die hard.”

 

“A lawyer?” Sam looked up sharply. “I went to law school for a while.”

 

“Really? Where?”

 

“Stanford.”

 

“I’m a Harvard man myself.” Nathan said, but he couldn’t quite manage a smile, and Sam couldn’t either. It seemed the past was a place neither of them wanted to dwell, because Sam quickly returned his attention to the files.

 

“Mind if I take a look at some of this?”

 

“Knock yourself out.”

 

Sam went at the research like a starving man. Nathan sharpened knives that didn’t need sharpening, and pretended not to watch Sam. He had the kind of single-minded determination that reminded Nathan of himself, the kind of focus that Peter couldn’t display for more than ten minutes at a time. His sure hands skimmed over reports, brown eyes going sharp at each new tidbit of information. He didn’t even look up when Nathan left to pick up some food, and when Nathan returned he was spread out on the bed surrounded by paper.

 

Sam looked startled when Nathan opened the door. Nathan held up the bag of egg rolls he’d gotten from the town’s single Chinese restaurant, and Sam smiled gratefully.

 

It was only when they sat down to eat together that Nathan realized they didn’t have much to talk about. “So… That research… Any revelations?”

 

Sam paused, an egg roll halfway to his mouth. “Uh… Not really,” he said slowly.

 

“You’ve been at it for hours. Did you figure out anything, or did you know all this already?”

 

“Well…” he said reluctantly. “There’s some stuff in the police reports I hadn’t seen. About the victims. And stuff…”

 

“And stuff? That’s what they’re teaching at Stanford these days?”

 

Sam bristled, just like Nathan had hoped. “I didn’t find anything solid, just a theory I’ve been working on.”

 

Nathan watched him expectantly, waiting for an explanation. It was a trick that often worked during cross-examination, and it didn’t disappoint him here.

 

“The families,” Sam said. “They’re not exactly typical families, are they?”

 

“Not typical in what way?”

 

Sam shrugged. “Dysfunctional. A few secrets.”

 

“Sam, that describes every family.”

 

“Yeah. You’re right. Forget it.” Then Sam shoved an entire roll into his mouth and spent the next minute chewing it.

 

Very suave. Like Peter, Sam had these innocent eyes that most people would buy into without a second thought. But Nathan had lots of experience reading through an innocent façade, and he knew Sam wasn’t telling him everything. He couldn’t decide if he was more irked that Sam was lying to him, or that Sam had seen something in the research that Nathan had missed.  
\--

 

_“Brat.” Nathan grabbed Peter by the collar and shoved him up against the wall of the motel room. “Flirting your ass off with that cop.”_

__

 

_Peter smirked. “Got us answers, didn’t it?”_

__

 

_“When did my little brother get to be such a whore?”_

__

 

_Peter skillfully maneuvered his knee to press between Nathan’s legs, and Nathan’s breath caught in his throat. “I thought you liked it when I was a whore,” he whispered, low and breathy in Nathan’s ear._

__

 

_Nathan shut him up with a fierce kiss, pinning him to the wall with the length of his body, riding up against Peter’s leg. “Just for me,” Nathan growled into his mouth. “Mine, Peter.”_

 

Peter came awake with a start, disoriented and achingly hard. He held still for a moment waiting for memory to catch up with him. Soft snoring broke the silence beside him, and that was new. Nathan didn’t snore—Nathan didn’t do anything that wasn’t planned—so this must be someone else. And waking up with someone other than Nathan hadn’t happened in a long time either. This person must really be something.

 

Peter rolled over to look. The man in the other bed—Dean, Peter’s sleepy mind supplied— _was_ really something. Hair bed-tussled, angelic features relaxed, eyelids fluttering in dreams. But they were in separate beds, and it wasn’t like that anyway, Peter’s mind protested as it finally came up to speed. Still, when Dean nuzzled against his pillow, muttering in his sleep, Peter’s dick twitched, reminding him that it hadn’t been “like that” in several days.

 

And a few days really shouldn’t be a problem, Peter scolded himself. Except that in the few months that he’d been on the road with Nathan, there’d been no reason for them to keep their hands off each other. For the first time in their lives it wasn’t about sneaking around and lying to their mother and to Nathan’s wife and pretending it was enough. After months of that, a few days without touch seemed like much longer.

 

He turned back over in bed and reached down to touch himself through the thin fabric of borrowed pajama pants. It almost hurt, it felt so good, and a moan escaped Peter’s lips before he realized it was coming. He froze, but Dean just turned over in his sleep and continued snoring.

 

Peter slipped out of bed and retreated to the bathroom. When he brought himself off in the shower, it was unsatisfying, too fast. He really wasn’t thinking of the hard lines of muscle under Dean’s shirt, of his ass in those ratty jeans as he’d scaled the cemetery wall, of how his lips looked wrapped around a bottle of beer. No, certainly not.

 

When he got out of the shower, Dean still showed no signs of waking. He had one arm flung over his eyes, and his t-shirt had slid up, revealing a swath of rugged abs marked in a few places by pale pink or white scars. Peter pulled his eyes away, slipped his own clothes back on; Sam’s were too big, and Peter had discovered yesterday that it was dangerous to borrow Dean’s clothes, which smelled too much like him: copper, smoke, and danger.

 

Peter grabbed his wallet and a room key and slipped out as quietly as he could, resisting the urge to just phase through the door lest Dean wake up to see. He didn’t have far to walk to get to a Starbucks. At this early hour on a weekend, the place was packed with people relaxing over their morning coffee. The cacophony of their thoughts buzzed in the back of Peter’s head, a welcome distraction from his own unhealthy musings.

 

He grabbed a _New York Times_ , ordered a soy latte, and squeezed in at the counter by the window between two young women concentrating fiercely on their laptops. As he sipped his drink, he toyed with the thought of getting one of the girls to let him use their computer. After all, the internet was much more likely to yield a lead on this demon than the _Times_. Of course, Nathan would say that using his abilities like this would be an unnecessary risk, an abuse of power, and totally childish. Dean would probably think it was neat. That is, if he didn’t flip out at learning that Peter had weird, kind of demon-like powers.

 

With a sigh, Peter opened his paper. He skimmed the main stories—the really interesting stuff was never up front anyway. What he read top to bottom were the little AP wire articles that came from all over the country: news bites unusual or provocative enough to titillate the Times readership—a fire in a sugar refinery in Georgia, a tornado that speared a car on a church steeple in Oklahoma, a California break-in foiled by a Pomeranian. He and Nathan spent many mornings searching the papers for articles like these that might be a case of a new power manifesting.

 

Peter almost spit out his latte when he got to page ten. Blushing at the glares of the laptop girls, he tucked his newspaper under his arm, stopped to pick up two regular coffees (sugar and cream for himself, straight black for Dean), and headed back to the motel.

 

Dean was still asleep when Peter arrived, and okay, yes they’d walked and driven half of Albany yesterday looking for a lead on that demon, and they’d covered the other half of the city the day before, so probably Dean had a right to be tired, but he had to wake up eventually.

 

“Dean. Hey, Dean.”

 

Dean cracked open one sleep-crusted eye halfway. “What time is it?” he asked hoarsely.

 

“Um, six-thirty?” Peter ventured a hopeful smile. “I brought coffee.”  
\--

 

Sam woke up just after dawn to find the room empty. The guns were nowhere to be seen; Nathan had locked them in the safe last night, but without knowing the combination, Sam had no way to know if they were still there, if the Colt was still there. He flung open the dingy white curtains and breathed a sigh of relief to see the Bentley still parked out front. At least Nathan hadn’t abandoned him entirely. Probably. Sam pulled on his shoes—he was still wearing the clothes he’d had on yesterday, which were the only clothes he had with him, and ran out of the room.

 

An older lady sat at the front desk, seemingly entranced by The Price is Right playing on a portable television.

 

“’Scuse me ma’am,” he said, and cursed the seconds it took for her to drag her eyes away from the TV. “Have you seen a guy about this tall?” He put up his hand to illustrate. “Um, brown hair?”

 

She looked at him like he was a little slow. “He’s in the pool,” she said. “Don’t worry, honey. He said he’d wait for you to wake up before you guys would want breakfast. That your brother?”

 

“What? No,” Sam said incredulously. Then, at her surprise, he softened his tone. “No ma’am. Thanks.” Sam slipped out the door and walked around to the side of the building, where a chain-link fence surrounded a too-blue pool.

 

Nathan was swimming laps. He moved through the water as if born to it—smooth, powerful strokes took him first to one wall and then, with a quick underwater flip, back again. Sam found himself admiring the way the water slid off his arms, the ripple of the muscles of his naked back. He looked almost too big for the pool—like a dolphin in a tank.

 

Nathan caught sight of him when he switched to breast stroke, and finished the lap he was on. “Morning,” Nathan said, standing up in the shallow end and grabbing a towel from the side of the pool.

 

“Hey. I didn’t know where you went,” Sam said sheepishly.

 

Nathan pulled himself out of the pool, and water slid in little rivulets down his chest and his arms until he toweled himself off. “I would have left a note, but you looked like you weren’t going to be up for a while. You sleep like the dead.”

 

“Yeah.” As long as someone else’s breathing could lull him to sleep. He always had trouble sleeping when Dean was gone. But still, maybe it was better Dean wasn’t here. Especially if his theory was right. And God he wanted to be wrong on this, but he got the sick feeling there was no such luck.

 

_“Dean, I’m tired. Will you just come to bed?”_

__

 

_Dean turned back to glare at Sam over the top of the couch. “You are such an old woman. I’m gonna watch the rest of the game, then I’ll come to bed.”_

__

 

_“I can’t sleep,” Sam grumbled._

__

 

_Dean rolled his eyes and turned down the volume on the television. “That better?”_

__

 

_“No,” Sam muttered, and turned over on his stomach, covering his head with a pillow._

__

 

_He heard Dean sigh, heard the television click off, and then the bed squeaked under Dean’s weight. Dean stretched out next to him, flinging one arm over Sam’s waist and pulling him tight against his chest. Sam let himself be handled._

__

 

_“I’m missing overtime,” Dean whispered in his ear._

__

 

_“You’re the best big brother ever,” Sam sighed. He was asleep in moments._

 

Nathan wrapped the towel around his waist and looked expectantly at Sam. “Did you need something?”

 

“Uh, no. No, I just wanted to make sure nothing happened to you.”

 

“You think your demon is going to come get us?”

 

Nathan was god-damn teasing him again, and it put Sam more than a little on edge. “Maybe, yeah. She tried to kill you once before, right?”

 

“Yes.” His hand went to the cuts on his chest, scabbed over now. “But I was just in the way. I don’t exactly fit the pattern.” He started walking back to the room, and Sam fell into step beside him.

 

“You mean the fact that she goes after families?”

 

“I don’t have a family anymore. Not really. Except for Peter.” He said it flatly but Sam had a lifetime of experience dealing with Dean, the King of Repression, so he could read the hurt underneath the words.

 

“Yeah. But we don’t know what she’s capable of, whoever she is,” he said reasonably. “Just… Don’t get killed on my watch?”

 

“Your watch?” Nathan stopped in his tracks and leveled an incredulous glare at Sam.

 

“Well…” Sam paused. He had no good reason why Nathan’s safety should matter to him. It just did. He ventured a glib reply, though. “If your brother is bad-ass enough to take out this demon without our help, I don’t want to be the one to have to explain why I let you get killed.”

 

Nathan laughed and clapped Sam on the shoulder. “That’s probably wise on your part, Sam Winchester. But don’t worry. I’m hard to kill, traditionally.”

 

“Well good.” Sam followed him back to the motel room, but when he took a last scan of the parking lot before closing the door, he was still sorry not to see the Impala.  
\--

 

Even Journey couldn’t improve Dean’s mood. He’d put on the music to prevent conversation, but now he had to deal with Peter sitting there in the passenger seat… _eating._ They’d gassed up at a little station about twenty miles back (the latest in a series of bogus credit card uses), and now Peter was devouring the last of a pack of mini-doughnuts. He ate like he did everything else: with enthusiasm and unconscious sensuality. It was downright distracting. And Dean shouldn’t enjoy it as much as he did.

 

Peter gave him that good sort of low-down tickle, and that shouldn’t be. He should be worried about Sam. Sam… Sam was comfortable. Sure, he was hot, too. Sure, he did things that were sexy as hell, but he was always just Sammy.

 

_“Stop it,” Sam said, smacking Dean in the side of the head. “You know I’m ticklish there.”_

__

 

_Dean leaned back on his haunches, catching his breath while Sam glared from his spot on the bed underneath him. “What, you don’t like being helpless?”_

__

 

_“Stop being a jerk!” Sam struggled under Dean, but couldn’t get the leverage to unseat him._

__

 

_“Stop being a bitch.” It was easy to fall into the familiar banter, as easy as falling into a kiss._

 

Sam was like home. But Peter… Peter was a novelty. This was like taking a road trip with the hottest girl he’d ever picked up at a bar.

 

Dean snuck another glance over at the passenger seat where Peter was licking powdered sugar off his fingers. Dean quickly snapped his eyes back to the road. _No man should have lips like that. Cock-sucking lips._ He risked another look. Peter had his thumb in his mouth, eyes closed in ecstasy. Dean let his foot drop on the accelerator. They just had to get to Baltimore. Just two hundred more miles.  
\--

 

Sam pushed his plate away, making a terrible face at the big pile of eggs, meat, and starch that he hadn’t been able to conquer. “That’s all for me.”

 

Nathan smiled, the same self-righteous smile Sam had grown to recognize and half love, half hate in the past few days. He wondered if there was something in him that brought out self-righteous amusement in older brother types.

 

_“Stop smirking at me!” Sam hissed over the formica table._

__

 

_“Dude, calm your shit,” Dean said, shoveling another forkful of pancake into his mouth._

__

 

_“Well then tell me what’s so damn funny,” Sam demanded._

__

 

_“Nothing. Just nothing.” Dean laughed and re-filled his mouth with syrupy pancakes._

 

Nathan threw down a twenty on the table—Nathan had been paying for everything so Sam hadn’t had to bust out any of his credit cards—stood, and stretched. “So, you have big plans for today?” he asked.

 

Sam followed him to the door. “Ha ha. I think we’ve now officially eaten in every restaurant in town and looked at every book in the _one_ library. If you would just let me make some calls--.”

 

“I said no.”

 

“Or send some e-mails, even.”

 

“Listen, I’m serious about this, Sam.” Nathan grabbed him by the shoulder, and Sam was startled by the intensity of his look. “It’s really important that we stay off the grid.”

 

“Fine. Okay,” Sam said. Nathan let him go, and they kept walking across the parking lot. “You know, even you’re going to get tired of waiting around here. Maybe we should just—.” Sam broke off with a gasp of pain as he lost sight of the parking lot and the car and the diner and his vision was filled with blurred shapes: bodies moving in the darkness.

 

“Sam?”

 

He put out a hand to forestall Nathan, but he could feel the sharp bite of gravel on his knees—when had he fallen? His head spun again, and saw trees overhead—blue-green in the darkness, dripping with rain. A stone archway rose up before him, flanked by two small towers. It looked familiar. Somewhere he and Dean had been before.

 

“Sam!”

 

Then he saw the demon, eyes flashing black, saw a flash of grey gunmetal in her hand. Then Dean was falling, falling. “No!”

 

“Sam! Say something!” Nathan was crouched next to Sam, shaking him by the shoulders, face drawn with concern verging on panic.

 

Sam sat up, catching his breath. Then he stood, dragging Nathan with him. “We have to go. Dean’s in trouble.”  



	2. Chapter 2

“So what’s the next step?” Peter asked. This little diner in west Baltimore was crowded, but he spoke softly, eager to avoid being overheard by any locals. 

 

“Find some people who were close to this guy, uh--.”

 

“Josh Mueller,” Peter supplied the name he’d seen in the _Times_ , in the article that had brought them here. 

 

“Right. Him. We talk to his family, whoever saw him last, that kind of thing,” Dean said breezily. “Try to find out if it’s really the demon that got him. If we’re really lucky, we’ll get to break into the coroner’s office later, see if the marks on this guy match the ones for the sacrifice.”

 

Peter still wasn’t clear on all of this supernatural stuff. He’d only just been getting used to crazy genetic mutations and the array of abilities that came with them, and now Dean had opened the door to a whole new realm of disturbing possibilities. “How does this sacrifice thing work?”

 

“Not 100% sure,” Dean said through a mouth full of cheeseburger. “Most of these things involve symbols, blood, little bit of chanting.”

 

“So she snatches one family member, does this ritual, and then what?”

 

“Near as Sam had it figured, the sacrifice has something to do with the bloodline. Like the first victim’s the key the demon uses to unlock the house.” Dean’s brow crinkled into a frustrated furrow. “Whatever. Sam explained it better.” He returned to devouring his food.

 

Peter watched with amusement. Dean had ordered a bacon cheeseburger, fries, coffee, and cherry pie. The guy was totally unrestrained Id. Peter took a moment to wonder what it would have been like to have grown up with a brother like Dean—someone who didn’t censor his every action. Someone who said exactly what he was thinking. Well…Most of the time. 

 

Dean was just shoveling another forkful of pie into his mouth when Peter overheard, _Hard to concentrate on the case when you’re making love to your milkshake over there._

 

Peter abashedly pulled his mouth off the straw he’d been sucking on. “So we need a way to stop it after it’s turned the key?”

 

“We need a way to stop it, period,” Dean said, brandishing his fork. “Once the sacrifice is done, the family’s toast in the next few days.”

 

After lunch they stopped to gas up the Impala and picked up a local paper. “See, easy,” Dean said, pointing to an article of Josh Mueller’s murder. “Best friend Aaron Bates, last one to see Mueller alive blah blah blah. Let’s go talk to him.”

 

They found the guy in question at home, and Peter tried couldn’t help but marvel at the fancy double-talk Dean had pulled on the phone to get the Department of Transportation to give him the address off Bates’ drivers license. Bates looked drawn and haggard. Sort of what Peter would expect of a guy who’d just lost his best high school buddy. 

 

“I’m Detective McGarrett, this is Detective Williams.” Dean flashed his badge, quick and authoritative, and Peter mimicked the motion. The badges Dean had provided weren’t that authentic-looking, but Dean had assured him that they worked every time. Still, Peter always got the same little flutter of fear in his stomach every time he had to impersonate a cop. 

 

_“Peter, you always look like you’re apologizing. Or trying to sell Girl Scout Cookies. You need to look like you have a right to be here. Like you could fuck someone up.”_

_“Well sorry if I’m not as scary as the great Nathan Petrelli.”_

_Nathan gave a long-suffering sigh. “Peter, you have the power to level a city. Could you at least_ pretend _to be scary?”_

 

“I already talked to the police,” Bates said. Still, he opened the door and let them in. 

 

“We’re following up on the initial report,” Dean said smoothly. “There were a few things in your statement that didn’t quite add up.”

 

Peter overhead a stray thought, loud and sharp: _Holy crap. They know._ “Uh, like what?” Bates leaned against the foyer wall and crossed his arms over his chest casually, but Peter could hear his heart hammering.

 

“Well why don’t you start by telling us about how you knew the victim,” Dean said.

 

“Okay. Well, I knew Josh since kindergarten. He was like…” _No, not family, not like that._ “We were close.”

 

“I know this must be hard,” Peter began at the same time Dean said, “Tell us about his family.” They weren’t quite polished as a team, and Dean’s annoyed glance stung a little, as did the overheard thought, _This’d be a lot easier if Sammy was here._

 

Bates was answering, though, oblivious to their irritation. “No, nothing. I mean fine. They’re fine. They get along fine.” _God damn you, Josh. You and Jesse both._ “Why do you ask?”

 

“What about Jesse?” Peter asked quickly. He resolutely did not look at Dean.

 

 _Shit shit shit._ “Um… I think Jesse’s taking it really hard. I mean, I can’t imagine what it’s like to lose your twin like that.” _God, I hope he didn’t tell them I knew… Why would he do that? Why did they tell me in the first place? These guys totally know. Shit._

 

Before Peter could work out what any of that meant, Dean said, “Yeah, terrible. I think that’s all we need.” He flipped his notebook shut. 

 

“One more thing,” Peter said quickly. “Did Josh and Jesse ever tell you anything unusual? Something maybe they wanted you to keep secret?”

 

Bates looked from Peter to Dean and back again, mouth working soundlessly. _No no no no I can’t._ “No,” he said finally, and it came out as little more than a croak. “No. Nope, man. Nothing like that.”

 

“Thanks for your time.” Dean dragged Peter away by the elbow. Before they were halfway down the sidewalk, he snapped, “What the hell happened to following my lead?”

 

“Just trying to help,” Peter muttered. There was no use trying to explain how he knew just the right questions to ask. 

 

Dean stopped by the door of the Impala and looked suspiciously at Peter. “How’d you know this guy had a twin?”

 

“It was in the article,” Peter lied. 

 

“Oh. Right. Well next time, don’t be so damn pushy. People start to get suspicious.”

 

“Sure. Sorry.” And he was. He didn’t want to give Dean any reason not to trust him; it was going to take both of them to track down this demon. “Sorry,” he said again.

 

 _Damn puppy eyes._ “Forget it. Let’s go find this Jesse guy.”  
\--

 

Nathan walked close to Sam on the way back from the diner, as if he was afraid Sam was going to faint or something. For his part, Sam spent the walk trying to remember where he’d seen those stone pillars before. On a hunt somewhere, or maybe in a book? This morning it had seemed like a wonderful idea to walk the four miles into town—they’d both been feeling restless—but now that he knew Dean was in danger, Sam wished he could just fly back to the motel. 

 

“So these vision things…” Nathan asked as they finally arrived back at the hotel parking lot. “You have them often?”

 

“Not for a long time. I thought they’d gone away, to be honest,” Sam said. Nathan clearly hadn’t believed any of what Sam had already told him about demons and rituals, so Sam didn’t want to get too much into the subject of his own psychic powers. Sam didn’t want Nathan to start treating him like a leper. Even Dean wasn’t comfortable with the things; he looked at Sam differently every time he had a vision.

 

_“Why would you tell someone about that, Sammy?” Dean snarled as he pulled Sam along by his jacket sleeve._

_“Listen, I thought it might help her open up about what’s happening to her if she knew I’d gone through something too.”_

_“You put yourself in danger, Sammy. I don’t want people thinking you’re…” Dean let go of Sam’s sleeve and quickened his pace._

_“Thinking I’m what?”_

_“Anything. Nothing. Just be more careful who you talk to about that stuff, okay?”_

 

To Sam’s surprise, Nathan just nodded. “You seem strangely okay with this,” Sam said.

 

“Well, if you brother’s in trouble, we have to help.” Nathan fished in his pockets and pulled out the keys to the Bentley.

 

“Yeah, but I mean, everything. Demons, blood rituals, visions. None of this bothers you?”

 

“Well, demons… I’m still not sure I’m with you on that one. But I know what it’s like to be… different. And my brother and I run into some pretty strange things in our line of work,” Nathan said, and popped open the trunk.

 

Sam’s eyes widened in surprise. The trunk was full of strange supplies: rope, duct tape, a fire extinguisher, lighter fluid, maps, a padded case with an assortment of syringes, a duffel bag stuffed full of cash, and guns. Lots of guns: tazer guns, tranquilizer guns, handguns. If the arsenal didn’t rival what was in the trunk of the Impala, it was only because it didn’t belong to hunters—at least not hunters who were after the monsters Sam was familiar with. Whatever mysterious business Nathan kept alluding to, it wasn’t demon hunting. 

 

Nathan pulled out a shotgun, which he held like an old friend, and made a sweeping gesture over the rest. “Want anything?”

 

“Uh, yeah.” Sam took a Glock, in case they ran into anything that didn’t require the Colt, and Nathan fished out a box of ammo for him.

 

“So, where we headed?” Nathan asked, slamming the trunk closed. 

 

Sam smiled. Once he’d stopped thinking about it, he’d actually remembered where he’d seen the landmarks from his vision. “Baltimore.”  
\------

 

Jesse, as it turned out, was a difficult man to track down. They talked to the parents, a girlfriend, two soccer teammates, and the pastor of Jesse’s church. Everyone had “just seen him,” or “gotten a text, like, just now,” or “spoken to him on the phone this morning,” but no one knew where he was right now. Dean had seen situations like this before, and they never ended well. 

 

“I’m starting to get a bad feeling about this,” Peter said as they climbed back into the Impala. 

 

“Yeah. Murdered kid’s twin goes missing, demon serial killer on the loose.”

 

“She has him, doesn’t she.”

 

“That’s what I’m thinking.” Dean was glad Peter was sharp enough to figure that out for himself.

 

“So what now?”

 

“Now we look for her,” Dean said. He reached over to fish a city map out of the glove box.

 

Peter pulled his knees up to his chest to get them out of the way. “Great. Because we did such a bang-up job of finding her in Albany.

 

“Hey, this time we know she’s got someone,” Dean offered. Like Sammy, Peter seemed to get especially frustrated, and correspondingly bitchy, when a civilian’s life was at stake. 

 

“But we don’t know where. We have no leads!”

 

“Okay. So you wanna give up?” Dean snapped. 

 

“No sir,” Peter mumbled, and slid down in his seat. Dean took a breath to calm himself. When he started sounding like his father, it shouldn’t come as a surprise that Peter sounded like Sam: the Sammy before Stanford, worn down and sullen with a lifetime of father and big brother telling him what to do. 

 

_“This is pointless, Dean. The leshii, if there ever was a leshii, is not going to show itself to us. They’re shape shifters. You think he’s just going to wander by in his true form in the middle of the night?”_

_“Shut up.” Dean shifted to find a non-existent more comfortable position on the tree branch he was perched on._

_“Dad just sent us out here to teach us a lesson.”_

_“Don’t talk about him like that. And for that matter, seriously, shut up. You’re scaring off all the wildlife.”_

_“Dean, there’s nothing to scare. It’s the middle of the winter. We’re not going to bag a leshii sitting in a tree. You may like getting your head messed with, but I’m done with Dad’s bullshit.”_

_Dean rounded on Sam, shoving him back against the tree truck with an arm across his throat, but careful—always careful with Sammy—that they didn’t overbalance and fall out of the tree. “Shut up.”_

_“Yes sir,” Sammy hissed, hurt layered under the familiar snap of the words. Dean let him go and turned back to the silent forest. He heard Sam climb down, heard his muffled footfalls in fresh snow as he walked away. Dean stayed to keep watch alone._

 

“Hey I…” Dean began, but faltered under the scrutiny of big brown eyes.

 

“I’m sorry,” Peter said. “You’re right.”

 

“I know I am,” Dean said brusquely. He sat up straighter in the driver’s seat and spread out the map over the steering wheel. “We’ll check warehouses first. That’s always a good place to bring a victim. There’s an industrial park by I-95. He’d have had to drive by there to get to soccer practice. Maybe that’s where she snatched him.”

 

They cruised the area in the Impala, looking for anything that might lead them to the demon. At the corner of Pembroke and Bank Street, Peter sat bolt upright in his seat. “Stop the car.”

 

“What is it?”

 

“That building.” Peter pointed at a nondescript warehouse. “We should check in there.” Dean looked at him incredulously. “You have somewhere to be?” Peter asked. 

 

Dean shrugged. He and Sam had solved cases on thinner leads, so he got out of the Impala and Peter followed wordlessly, tucking his gun in the back waistband of his pants and silently cursing the fact that the Colt was with Sam. The sun was just setting, and no one was in sight, but there was no sense being sloppy. They worked their way around the building until they got to a side door. Dean picked the lock easily. As the door clicked open, Peter let out an appreciative whistle. “You’re good at that.”

 

Dean smirked. “I know,” he said smugly. _And everybody loves a bad boy._ “Stay close.”

 

The warehouse was dark, of course, the last of the dusty sunlight filtering through dirty windows. Something creaked, metal on metal, from somewhere deep in the building. Dean drew his gun. 

 

“Dean,” Peter whispered. “She’s here somewhere. I know it.”

 

“Okay, don’t get twitchy,” Dean warned. 

 

Dean edged around a corner, squinting through the darkness, and Peter’s “umph” was his first warning that anything was wrong. He whirled around, leveling his gun. 

 

The demon jumped out of the darkness to tackle Peter, and he struggled beneath her on the filthy floor of the warehouse. Dean tried to aim, swearing. He couldn’t get a clean shot with them grappling like that. He dropped his gun and drew the knife from his boot. The demon had Peter pinned face down on the floor, and she raised her knife, a line of shining silver above her head. Dean launched himself at them. He caught her in the side with his knife as she turned before a demonically strong shove sent Dean flying into a pile of boxes. 

 

As he struggled to right himself, he heard the demon scream, saw out of the corner of his eye the same blue flash of lightning he’d seen at the cemetery a week ago, then heard the kick of a gun shot. By the time Dean stood up, the demon had fled and Peter was sitting up, holding the gun Dean had dropped. 

 

“All right Peter!” Dean said, pulling him up by the arm. “We’ll make a hunter out of you yet!”

 

“I let her get away,” Peter grumbled, brushing grime off his clothes.

 

“It’s okay. I’ve got a plan.” Dean picked up his knife. “We’ve got her blood.” He pulled a small, oblong stone from his jacket pocket. “So we’ve got a way to find her.”  
\----

 

Sam spent the first part of the ride just watching the countryside go by. The Bentley made almost no noise, certainly nothing like the familiar purr of the Impala. Even when Dean had Metallica turned up full blast, the comforting rumble of the Impala’s engine was always there, more relaxing than any Magic Fingers bed. 

 

_“See, now that’s the sound it’s supposed to make,” Dean said with a wide grin as they accelerated on a straightaway._

_“Funny. I thought that was the sound of getting pulled over for speeding by State Troopers with nothing better to do. For the third time this month.”_

_“Killjoy,” Dean grumbled, but he eased off the gas._

 

Sam wondered idly about Nathan and Peter, about their routines and rituals. If they didn’t usually drive, then how did they get around? Certainly Nathan seemed too high class and… adult for juvie crap like boosting a new car in every town. “What are you on the run from? You and Peter?” The words were out of his mouth before he’d really thought about it. 

 

Nathan flicked his eyes away from the road for a moment to glare at Sam. “That badge, the bikini inspector one. Is it the only badge you have?”

 

Sam hadn’t really been expecting a straight answer, but the brush-off put him on edge. “Well when I left my motel room a week ago, I wasn’t expecting to be kidnapped,” Sam said testily. And if Nathan had let him call Dean, his brother probably wouldn’t be in some kind of mysterious mortal peril right now. 

 

“Kidnapped?”

 

“You knocked me out and carried me across state lines, didn’t you?”

“I don’t recall,” Nathan said primly. “We’ll get you some pictures and remake one of Peter’s. Glove box.”

 

Peter opened the glove compartment to find a box about the size of the one he and Dean used to store false IDs, but here each badge had its own little slot, neatly labeled: FBI, Homeland Security, Department of Fish and Wildlife, NYPD. It was gloriously organized. Not that Sam would take the time to do something like this himself, but he could certainly appreciate the difference between this and the jumble of paperwork in the Impala’s glove box. 

 

“You guys spend a lot of time in New York?” he asked, fingering the NYPD badges. 

 

“No.” Nathan’s answer was unexpectedly sharp, and Sam looked up in time to catch a guilty glance before Nathan rushed on. “Use the FBI one. Works well most places.”

 

Sam lifted two badges and IDs from the slot marked FBI. From the first, Nathan “Special Agent Williams” stared back at him, square-jawed and grim. The second ID must have belonged to Peter. And sure, Sam had caught a glimpse of him that night the cemetery, but it had been dark. Certainly this wasn’t what he’d been expecting when he’d pictured Nathan’s brother. “Wow.”

 

“What?” Nathan’s eyes flicked away from the road, and caught for a moment on Peter’s picture.

 

“So that’s Peter.” The guy was downright pretty, and he had the same charming smile in his eyes that Dean could put on, when he wanted to. 

 

Nathan smiled. “Yeah, that’s him. Doesn’t look like much of an FBI agent, I know.”

 

“Can I… What exactly do you guys do? If it’s not hunting demons.”

 

Nathan’s hand clenched tighter on the steering wheel, and he didn’t glare, but Sam could tell he wanted to. “No offence, Sam, but that’s between me and my brother.”

 

“Family business,” Sam snorted, remembering a time when Dean had given that name to their cross-country Impala odyssey.

 

“Yes.” Nathan’s smile was grim and a little pained. “You could say that.”

 

Sam took the hint and shut up, but before he closed the box, something caught his eye. Under the guise of tidying up the badges he’d moved, Sam picked up a photo that had been stashed under the NYPD badges. It was a picture of Nathan and Peter in light summer suits, standing on a grassy beach. Nathan, looking a little younger and a good deal more clean-cut, had one arm slung casually over Peter’s shoulder, and Peter’s head was half thrown back, laughing. Sam flipped the picture over. The back was labeled in small, neat writing: “Petrelli reunion on Nantucket, 2002.” 

 

Sam quickly tucked the picture back under the NYPD badges and glanced surreptitiously at Nathan. Luckily, Nathan had his eyes on the road. Sam slid the box of badges back into the glove compartment. He didn’t want Nathan to think he’d been prying, and in all honesty he didn’t really care about Nathan’s name. But it was enlightening to know that Nathan and Peter had a real family somewhere: the sort that had reunions on Nantucket for which jackets and ties were required, apparently. He wondered what had brought Nathan from that to this: crappy hotel rooms and greasy diner food and dusty back roads.

 

He settled back in the passenger seat, brooding. Once they got to Baltimore, he was sure he could find out something more about the Petrellis.  
\---

 

The thing about the lodestone was that it didn’t tell you how far away a thing was, only the direction. Stopping halfway through a cemetery—and why was it always a cemetery?—Dean held up the stone, and it spun lazily for a moment before snapping to a stop. The end painted with the demon’s blood faced north. _It’s a start,_ Dean thought grimly. He was really getting sick of this bitch.

 

“The demon could be in Montreal right now,” Peter said glumly.

 

“Funny. Not really. Demons can’t fly.” Dean considered for a moment. “They can hitchhike, though.”

 

“Hey look,” Peter said. The lodestone had pivoted as they’d stood talking. “She’s moving.” 

 

Thunder rolled overhead, and Dean swore under his breath. “Then we should hustle up. Last thing we need is to be running around in a damn storm.”

 

“Hey boys.” 

 

It was the demon. Dean shouldn’t have been surprised, but when he looked up there she was, leaning against a tree, casually tossing her fancy knife up in the air and catching it. 

 

“Peter, get behind me,” Dean said. Peter only made a small noise of protest before stepping behind Dean. 

 

“Oh Dean. You are so darling,” the demon crooned. “Always trying to protect the weak, the innocent.”

 

“Yeah, I’m noble like that.” Dean flashed his best cocky grin and shifted his grip on his gun. 

 

“Misguided, maybe. And you can save the charm,” she said, pushing off the tree and slinking a few steps closer. “I am not interested in you in the least. Not that I couldn’t take you if I wanted to. I mean, hell knows you deserve it,” her black eyes raked him up and down, expression somehow shouting her assessment of _worthless_ and _failure_. “But frankly, Dean Winchester, you’re not worth the effort.”

 

And yeah, demons lie, and Dean had been facing up to demons and their bullshit all his life, but it still hurt a part of him that was tender with worrying at it on his own. _Should have come up with a better plan,_ he scolded himself, taking a step back and pushing Peter further behind him. _Should have gotten the Colt, or gotten something. Sloppy, Dean._

 

“Don’t listen to her,” Peter hissed in his ear. 

 

“That one, though…” The demon’s eyes slid past Dean to rake Peter up and down. “He’s a treat. Him I could use.”

 

“Okay, creepy.” Dean said, slowly unscrewing the cap on the holy water in his left hand. If Dean could get her to chase him, he could make it to devil’s trap they’d painted in the mausoleum in the middle of the cemetery. He just had to make sure she didn’t go after Peter instead. 

 

“Holy water?” The demon shook her head in disgust. “Really, Dean. I expected better of you.” She pulled something from under her coat, and Dean was surprised to see she held a shotgun. “I think that you should put down your gun, or I will shoot you, and then I’ll take your companion.”

 

“No offence, sweetheart, but I’m not dropping my gun” Dean said. _What the hell kind of demon uses a gun anyway? Bitch._ “Call me crazy, but I’m not willing to take your word for much.”

 

“That hurts, Dean.” She pumped the shotgun once. “Drop the gun. Is your life really worth his? The way I hear it, you’ve only got a few more months, anyway. One.”

 

“Aw, come on now.” Dean raised his own gun, but he knew the silver-tipped bullets wouldn’t kill the demon. If he was lucky, it would set her back enough that he’d have time to make a run for the trap. If not, he’d be dead, and Peter would be hers for the taking. 

 

She pumped the shotgun. “Two.”

 

“Dean, drop the gun.” Peter whispered in his ear. “It’ll be okay. I know what to do.”

 

 _Oh, if_ that _wasn’t confidence inspiring…_

 

“Three.”

 

“Okay.” Dean tossed his gun on the grass in front of him. “See, we can do this like civilized people. Now just tell us where Jesse is, and we’ll be on our way.”

 

“Jesse? He’s already gone. You could never have saved him. Oh Dean.” The demon smiled. “I’m almost sad to have to do this. Goodbye.” 

 

The demon pulled the trigger, and suddenly—faster than any human being had a right to move—Peter was in front of him. The impact sent him stumbling back into Dean, and then he was falling, as if in slow motion, to the ground. 

 

“No!” Dean dove for his gun and came up firing, catching the demon in the shoulder with a silver-tipped round. He followed that with splashes of holy water, firing blindly as he waved the bottle. Screaming in mingled pain and laughter, the demon fled. 

 

Dean scrambled to Peter’s side. There was a hole in his chest where the shotgun had caught him, and all Dean could think was that this was the sort of thing Sammy would do—selfless and stupid—and Dean would not be responsible for letting someone else’s kid brother lay down his life. Not for him. He pressed the palm of one hand against the wound, refusing to look at Peter’s face in case the eyes were glassy and dead—past helping. This Nathan, whoever he was, deserved his brother back safe, and Dean wasn’t about to ruin their chances of a reunion through his own recklessness. 

 

“Hold on Pete,” Dean muttered. Peter twitched under his hands, and Dean felt a stab of hope—not dead yet.

 

“Dean…” Peter’s voice sounded as if it came from the end of a long, dark tunnel. 

 

“It’ll be okay.” There was so much blood. He’d patched up bad wounds before, but not like this. Peter was broken wide open, white splinters of bone showing through the red. “We’ll… We’ll get you to a hospital.” 

 

“Don’t bother.” Peter grabbed Dean’s wrist, and he was surprisingly strong for a dying guy. “Just move your hand.” His voice was wet in his throat, and Dean saw the bubbles of blood well up in his mouth, knew what they meant. 

 

“I’m not letting you die,” Dean snarled. His free hand came to rest on Peter’s forehead—nothing better to do with it. “Not for me.”

 

“I’m not gonna die.” 

 

“No, you’re not. Just hold on.” Peter made a sick, gurgling sound, and Dean’s heart almost stopped. 

 

Then Peter pulled against Dean’s hand again—still alive, at least—and croaked, “Please don’t.” Dean let Peter drag his arm away from the wound. For a few tense moments, Peter lay with his eyes squeezed shut, breath coming in shuddering gasps. Dean hovered, rubbing his thumb in little circles against the clammy skin of Peter’s brow, and knowing with a certain gut-deep certainty that if anyone let his little brother, his Sammy, take a bullet meant for them, he’d rip them apart with his bare hands. 

 

The rain started, then: fat drops that splashed against Peter’s pale face, against his eyes squeezed shut in pain, and Peter made another horrible noise. “Peter, for God’s sake let me help,” Dean said, hands hovering over the wound like he could hold it closed with bare hands if Peter would let him. 

 

Peter shook his head, weakly shoving Dean away, and he settled for holding Peter’s head while he shuddered with shallow breaths that Dean recognized, knew too damn well, as belonging to the end of a man’s time. 

 

Then he began to notice something strange; as rain mixed with blood, carrying it in little pink rivers down Peter’s sides, Dean saw skin where moments ago he’d had a too-clear view of internal organs. Peter’s breath evened out, and after a moment his eyes fluttered open. “Okay,” Peter said hoarsely. 

 

“What…?” Dean blinked the water out of his eyes and looked again. “What?”

 

“I should have told you,” Peter said. “I can just do… some stuff.”

 

“Christos,” Dean said, but Peter didn’t flinch. _Not possessed… But that’s not normal._

 

“I’m not a demon. It’s a long story.”

 

“So you can…?”

 

“Heal. Yeah, I can,” Peter said wearily. 

 

Dean rubbed a hand across Peter’s belly, clearing away blood to reveal whole, unmarked skin. “Huh.” He sat back on his heels. “Kinda takes away some of your hero points for jumping in front of a bullet.”

 

“Ah.” Peter drew in his breath with a sharp hiss as he sat up. “Still hurts like a bitch.”

 

“I bet.” Dean helped him to his feet. He wasn’t sure what the hell this meant about Peter, but he’d have to give the guy the benefit of the doubt. Dean had seen enough to know that powers didn’t always mean evil. _Hell, Sam has some pretty strange abilities going on, and no one should think less of him for that._

 

For a moment, Peter stood quietly, ragged breaths sounding harsh even over the rain. He looked off into the darkness, the way the demon had gone, and shook his head. “She almost shot you.”

 

“Yeah, well she didn’t.” Dean was trying not to think about that. “You okay?”

 

“No.” Peter stumbled a few steps to a tree, bent over, and retched, but nothing came out. He stumbled to the ground, and Dean was beside him immediately.

 

“Hey, take it easy.” Dean grabbed him by the shoulders, and Peter leaned against him, shaking. “You really okay?”

 

“Sure,” Peter muttered into his shoulder. “It just gets like this, after… All the adrenaline.”

 

Peter’s hands on his back gripped tightly, as if he’d never let go. Dean didn’t mind. Sam wouldn’t often take comfort like this—he didn’t particularly like being held. He said it made him feel Dean was coddling him, like they were kids again. 

 

_“Shhh, Sammy.” Dean hugged his brother closer, snuggling into the corner of hotel room, wedged between the bed and the wall. “Don’t cry. Don’t cry.”_

_The wind howled outside, and another peal of thunder broke overhead, sending Sam cowering into his arms like he was trying to crawl inside Dean’s chest. “Where’s Dad?”_

_“I told you,” Dean said gently. “You’re too old for this. I told you.”_

_“The monsters are going to get him this time. I know it.”_

_“No they are not.” With a supreme effort, Dean pried Sam off of him and held him at arm’s length. “They’re not, because you wanna know why?”_

_“Why?” Sam asked with a terrified sniffle._

_“Because the Winchesters, the three of us together, we’re stronger than monsters. Believe it, Sammy.”_

 

Peter leaned more of his weight against Dean, and his shuddering breaths began to even out. “I gotcha,” Dean whispered. It felt good, right to hold Peter like this, to protect him.

 

“Sorry,” Peter muttered as he clung to Dean. “I’ll be fine. It’s just… Nathan has always been here when I needed him.”

 

“Yeah. It’s a big brother thing.” Dean got it: Peter was scared. Somewhere out there, Sammy might be scared too. It gave him a second’s pause to remember that, and he hoped that somewhere, Peter’s brother was taking better care of Sam than Dean was of Peter. 

 

“Nathan _will_ take care of him,” Peter said softly.

 

“Yeah, okay.” Dean certainly hoped so. And the least he could do in return was make sure he didn’t put Peter in danger again. “Let’s get out of the rain.” Dean maneuvered himself under Peter’s arm, wrapped a hand around his sharp-skinny hip, and pulled him to his feet. Peter lurched into him, and Dean found both his hands on Peter’s waist, Peter’s face inches from his, dripping with rain. _No man should be that pretty._ Dean would remember that thought later, because it was his last coherent one for some time. 

 

Peter leaned in, closing the distance between them to nothing, and kissed Dean. His lips were soft, just as Dean had imagined they would be. His body was warm against Dean’s. Dean found himself opening up, letting Peter’s tongue in. Peter was open for him, too, wide open and wanting, and it wasn’t until Peter pulled back that Dean remembered to breathe. 

 

They stared at each other for a moment, faces inches apart in the rain, Peter’s breath warm on the side of Dean’s face. Then Dean was the one to lean in, pressing their lips together again and coaxing Peter’s mouth open with his tongue. Peter shuddered under him, clinging to Dean like a drowning man until he suddenly broke away and took a step back, out of the circle of Dean’s arms. 

 

“Dean, I…,” Peter said. 

 

 _Here it comes,_ Dean thought, his heart sinking rapidly. 

 

Peter brushed water-logged bangs out of his face. “There’s something I should tell you.”

 

Oh, that was never a good thing to hear after a first kiss. Especially a first kiss that had gone as well as that. And yeah, Peter had started it, but still Dean was expecting to hear “I don’t feel that way about you” or “That was stupid, forget it.”

 

“It’s not like that,” Peter said quickly, and he stepped back up to Dean to put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “I can read minds.”

 

Dean’s thought process ground to a halt. “Read minds?” he repeated. Mind control? Sure. Super strength? No problem. Telekinesis? Totally believable. But mind reading…? Dean sure as shit never wanted anyone to know what was going on in his head. “I, uh,” he said cleverly.

 

“I try not to,” Peter explained quickly. “But sometimes, if someone’s thinking really hard, my control slips.”

 

“You’ve read my mind?”

 

“A little.”

 

“Ah… Dude.” Dean turned away. He tried to remember if he’d thought anything incriminating around Peter. _Like how I’m wanted for murder in three states. Or how I traded my soul to a demon. Or that I’m fucking my brother._ “Oh god.” Dean whirled around to face Peter. “Are you reading my mind right now?”

 

“No. Yes. Sorry!”

 

“Oh shit.” Dean took off across the graveyard. He had to get back to the Impala. Get on the move, get on the road, go after the demon and pretend this never happened. Things were going so well a few moments ago; he should have known he’d never be so lucky.

 

“Dean!” Peter ran after him. “Calm down.”

 

“How in the hell am I supposed to calm down when you’re all up in my head?” _Probably hearing me think how much I love to suck Sammy’s cock—Oh fuck._ Was it his imagination, or did Peter smile? “Get away from me!”

 

“Dean, I didn’t tell you to freak you out.” Peter grabbed at his jacket, but lost his grip on the wet leather when Dean jerked his arm away. 

 

“Oh really?”

 

Peter made another grab, held on this time. “I told you because I need someone to talk to.”

 

“Come again?” Dean said. 

 

Peter took a deep breath. “I’m fucking my brother.”

 

Dean stared at Peter, bangs plastered to his forehead in the downpour, eyes open and haunted and begging Dean to understand. “That’s….” he managed. He should be telling Peter how sick that was, how he didn’t want to hear it, but he couldn’t get the words out. He felt nothing but calm. 

 

“My brother Nathan. We’re having sex. Have for years.”

 

Dean gathered his wits enough to give an indifferent shrug and a terse, “So?”

 

Peter’s face fell, a wounded look in his eye that hurt Dean, too, and Peter said, more softly, “I’ve never told anyone. Not anyone. If he knew…” Peter sucked in a breath and hurried on. “Nathan and I have a connection that no one else can understand, and there has never been anyone to talk to about it. But I think… I don’t know, maybe I’m supposed to meet you, because you and Sam are—.”

“Hold it,” Dean cut him off. “You need to be very careful what you say about my brother.”

 

Peter hesitated, his hand heavy on Dean’s arm. Finally he said, “Haven’t you ever wished there was someone you could talk to about it?”

 

“I don’t need to talk.” Winchesters didn’t talk about their feelings. Winchesters just did what had to be done. 

 

“Look,” Peter continued. “I’m in love with my brother. He’s saved my life more than once. He’s seen me at my absolute worst, and he still stands by me. He gave up everything for me. He’s what matters most in my life, and I can never talk about it. Doesn’t it bother you to have to hide it all the time?”

 

“Yeah it does, okay?” Dean snapped. He shook Peter’s hand off his arm and took a step back, but he managed to keep from running away like a scared little girl. Peter nodded once, in acknowledgement. “We need to get out of here before that thing comes back,” Dean said. His voice sounded rough and weak. 

 

“Okay,” Peter said, but Dean could tell he wasn’t done. “Lead the way.”  
\--

 

Somewhere on I-81, Sam sat forward with a gasp. Nathan glanced over at the pained expression on his face, and put on the right turn signal. He’d been half expecting this, ever since that diner parking lot. No one who had visions like that had them just once. There was an exit in two miles; he’d pull off there and let Sam get this whatever-it-was out of his system. “Sam? You okay?”

 

Sam cried out again, and this time he jerked forward so hard he nearly slammed his head against the dashboard.

 

“Right. Not making it to that exit, then.” Nathan guided the Bentley onto the shoulder and threw it in park. “Hey Sam.” He grabbed Sam’s shoulder, but Sam didn’t respond; he only put his head in his hands and shook. 

 

“Come on, don’t do this,” Nathan muttered. He ripped off his seat belt and climbed out of the car into the rain and the dark. 

 

_“Peter!” He dug his fingers hard into Peter’s shoulder. “Get up.”_

_Peter was slack and unresponsive as a rag doll. Seeing that, Nathan’s stomach clenched against the nausea that was threatening to fight its way up. It was too much like other times that had broken Nathan’s heart—too much like three weeks of waiting at Peter’s bedside, ignoring a campaign that needed him, hating himself for letting it happen, and learning to his core how little anything else would matter if Peter never woke up._

_“Peter!” He shook him fiercely, and this time Peter’s eyes fluttered open. “Damn it, Pete.”_

_“Hey,” he croaked. “Miss me?”_

_“You’re not funny,” Nathan grumbled. “That was another vision, right?”_

_“Yeah. I think I know what we’re supposed to do.”_

 

Nathan wrenched the passenger door open. “Sam, what?” He put one hand on Sam’s shoulder, the other on his knee, ready to stop him if it looked like he was going to make another attempt to break his nose on the dashboard.

 

“Dean,” Sam gasped. He gave one more full-body shudder, backwards this time, his head rebounding off the seat. Then his breathing started to slow, but his eyes remained squeezed shut.

 

“It’s okay,” Nathan said. “I’ve got you.” As soon as it was out of his mouth, he knew it was wrong, too intimate, that Sam wasn’t Peter. Still, if these visions were real, and Sam’s brother was somehow in trouble, chances were good that Peter was in trouble as well.

 

Sam’s eyes snapped open to lock with Nathan’s. They were blank with confusion.

 

“Hey, it’s okay,” Nathan said soothingly. “It’s just me. What did you see?”

 

Understanding slowly filtered back into Sam’s eyes, and with it came, to Nathan’s surprise, a deep blush. Sam’s mouth gaped in a complete failure to form words. 

 

“Sam, what?”

 

“I don’t know,” he managed at last, but he’d torn his eyes away from Nathan and wouldn’t look back. 

 

“Did it have something to do with my brother? With the demon?”

 

“I… No,” Sam muttered. “Don’t worry about it.” He continued to stare resolutely at his hands.

 

Nathan tightened his grip on Sam’s shoulder. “I understand this might not be easy to talk about, but if you’re not telling me something that has to do with Peter....”

 

At last Sam’s eyes flicked to Nathan, and he ventured a weak smile. “It’s not like that. It’s just… Stuff.”

 

“Fine.” Nathan stood and headed back to the drivers side, uselessly shaking off the rain. It took some expenditure of willpower not to slam the car door, but he was far from calm when he pulled back onto the road. He snuck a glance over at his passenger, but Sam was stubbornly staring at his hands again, and it didn’t look like he’d be in a talking mood anytime soon.  
\--


	3. Chapter 3

Peter was nearly vibrating out of his skin with energy, blood rushing through him with the full body tingle that came with healing. Everything seemed too loud, too bright: the raindrops dripping down his back were too much sensation. He squirmed uncomfortably in the passenger seat. He knew Dean felt the tension, too. Peter could hear his heart galloping ever faster as the Impala picked up speed, rushing through deserted industrial districts and sleepy residential neighborhoods.

 

“Are we going to the motel?” Peter asked, and he was surprised at how low and sultry his voice sounded.

 

Dean grunted noncommittally; his thoughts were a mantra of _drive drive drive drive drive._

 

“I’m all bloody,” Peter continued. “And we should regroup, figure out where the demon’s going next.”

 

“Right. Okay.” _Just a quickie. No—just a quick stop, Perfectly innocent. No problem. Oh sweet demon Jesus._

 

Dean parked the Impala in front of their room and sat, making no move to get out.

 

Peter paused with his hand on the passenger door handle, reluctant even to bring up what he had to. “Um… Dean?”

 

“What?”

 

“I don’t have… I don’t have any other clothes.”

 

Dean stared at him. _Oh God. This is a bad porno. I am in a bad porno with a magic thought-hearing man._ Dean pulled the keys out of the ignition and climbed out of the car, leading the way to the room. Peter followed, and since Dean wasn’t looking, he didn’t bother to wipe the smirk off his face.

 

They were both dripping water all over the carpet, but Dean seemed oblivious to that, making a beeline for his bag and rummaging for some clothes. Peter pulled off his shirt and wiped away what little blood the rain had left. Dean turned around, clothes in hand, and froze at the sight of a shirtless, wet Peter. _Guh._

 

“Hey…” Peter closed the distance between them. He reached for the clothes, deliberately brushing his hand against Dean’s.

 

Dean’s eyes flew to his, and Peter didn’t need powers to read the want there. “I, uh…” Dean said. “I don’t think Sam’s clothes will fit. So you can try me. Try my clothes. Try these.” He pressed them into Peter’s hands and took a step back, bumping into the bed.

 

“Yeah.” Peter tossed the clothes onto the other bed and sauntered into Dean’s personal space. “Listen… I’m sorry if I scared you back there.”

 

Dean’s hand lifted to flutter by Peter’s belly. _You could have died…_ He didn’t quite touch, though, and his hand dropped back to his side.

 

“Hey.” Peter grabbed Dean’s wrist. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m fine.”

 

“Stop getting in my mind,” Dean muttered, but it was a half-hearted protest. His hands found Peter’s hips, one thumb rubbing over the sharp bone there.

 

“Stop thinking so loud.” Peter stood in Dean’s personal space just waiting, tuning out the whirlwind of Dean’s thoughts.

 

The moment stretched into silence. Each breath brought Dean marginally closer until Peter finally heard _Yeah, okay,_ and Dean leaned in to kiss him, hands closing tightly around Peter’s waist. Peter opened up for Dean, and Dean gave back, sharp and demanding. Once he’d crossed the line, there was no timidity in him, no shame. He kissed like he drove: confidently and expertly.

 

Dean pulled Peter in, grinding their bodies together, and Peter could feel Dean’s hardness pressed against his own. They’d both been ready for this since the cemetery. Peter worked at peeling off the soaked layers of Dean’s clothes, first pushing off the jacket, then leisurely unbuttoning another shirt and tossing it off into the darkness. Finally he reached for the hem of Dean’s t-shirt, and broke their kiss for a moment to pull it up and over Dean’s head.

 

Peter felt another stab of arousal as his bare chest bumped against Dean’s, wet from the rain but warm nonetheless, his heart beating fast just under the surface. “You sure you’re okay?” Dean whispered, his hand resting again on Peter’s belly.

 

In answer, Peter expertly unbuttoned Dean’s jeans and slipped his hand inside, down a trail of short hairs, inside his boxers to wrap around the silky-hard flesh there. Dean hissed through his teeth.

 

“Yeah,” Peter said. “I’m good.” He stroked Dean for a few moments, just a gentle pull with a loose fist, and reveled in Dean’s breathy pants against his cheek. At last he leaned closer to Dean’s ear and whispered, “Can I suck your cock?”

 

 _Christ_. “Yeah.” Dean’s voice was hoarse.

 

Peter sunk to his knees, pulling down Dean’s jeans and boxers for him to step out of before pushing Dean to sit on the edge of the bed. Peter licked a line down his hand, and returned to stroking Dean, running his thumb around the head at the end of each stroke. Dean bit back a moan—of frustration, probably—and clenched his fists in the threadbare bed cover.

 

Dean’s eyes were stubbornly fixed on the ceiling, but Peter kept his eyes on Dean’s face, gauging his reaction to every touch. It had been a long time since he’d done this for anyone except Nathan, but Peter pushed that thought away and lost himself in learning what Dean liked. At last Peter wrapped his lips around the head of Dean’s swollen cock. Dean didn’t even attempt to stay silent, and Peter grinned around a mouth full of dick at the sound of relief in that moan.

 

Dean’s hand carded through Peter’s hair, petting him, almost, but never rough, never taking control, though Peter could tell he wanted to. Peter knew how to fix that. He drew back, applying only the barest touch with his tongue, just enough friction to be maddening.

 

Dean whined deep in his throat, and Peter leaned back to look up at him mischievously. “What do you need?” Peter asked.

 

“Come on, dude,” Dean grumbled. He fisted his hand in Peter’s hair, but let go immediately.

 

“ _You_ come on. You can have what you want,” Peter said softly. “You just have to take it.” He flicked out his tongue to swirl around the head of Dean’s cock. Dean’s hips jerked forward, fucking into Peter’s mouth, and Peter smoothly wrapped his lips around Dean, sucking harder. Dean let out a satisfied moan.

 

Peter ran his teeth gently along the underside of Dean’s cock, teasing again. Dean let out a warning growl and took a firmer hold on Peter’s head, guiding him deeper. Peter obligingly swallowed down Dean’s cock until his nose was buried in curly brown hair, tears stinging his eyes as his gag reflex kicked in. He reached down into his jeans to wrap a hand around his own cock, hard and straining. He thought Dean was getting it, at last. Getting what they could be for one another. They could be for each other what they could never be with their brothers.

 

_Nathan slid out of the bed with a sigh of disgust, grabbed a white hotel towel from the floor and wrapped it around his hips. “I said no, Peter.”_

__

 

_“I’m not made of glass,” Peter snarled, and he jumped after Nathan, cutting him off before he could lock himself in the bathroom. “If you won’t, I’ll find someone else.”_

__

 

_Faster than he could blink, Peter found himself up against the wall with Nathan’s arm across his throat. “No you will not.” Nathan’s voice was dark, and had real anger in it, tightly reined in, but there._

__

 

_Peter managed a smile, despite the lack of oxygen. “Was that so hard?”_

__

 

_“No. That’s the problem.” Nathan pulled his arm away quickly._

__

 

_Peter spoke quickly, trying to get the words out before Nathan closed off his emotions behind the implacable mask Peter knew so well. “Then stop being my brother for five minutes and just be my lover.”_

__

 

_“I can’t.” Nathan turned away and strode to the bathroom, shutting and locking the door behind him._

 

Peter swallowed around Dean’s cock, still looking up at him and admiring the way his eyes became a darker green as he got harder.

 

_Wonder what it’d be like to bend him over. God I bet he’s tight._

 

Peter pulled his mouth off Dean’s cock to ask, “You gonna do it, or just think about it all night?”

 

Dean’s eyes sparkled at that challenge. “Get on the bed. On your knees,” he said.

 

Peter quickly shucked off the rest of his damp clothes and climbed onto the bed. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Dean rummaging through one of the bags on the floor. _Know Sam keeps this stuff in here somewhere._

 

Peter shoved down a sudden swell of guilt; Sam couldn’t possibly be a jealous guy, not with the thoughts and memories of Dean’s that Peter had overheard. And Nathan would just have to understand; Peter need this right now, needed it like breathing.

 

The bed dipped as Dean returned, and Peter found himself almost wriggling in anticipation. “Look at that.” Dean ran a hand down Peter’s side, over the upturned curve of his ass. _Nice._ Peter felt something cold at his entrance, but he didn’t flinch away. Dean pressed a finger into him, slick with lube. Peter pushed back, welcoming Dean in further.

 

Peter jerked as a hand slapped his ass. “Don’t move,” Dean snapped. Peter tried to hold still, but he couldn’t help a shudder of excitement. Dean waited until Peter was motionless to start working his finger in further. He quickly added a second, spiraling and scissoring them inside. When he pulled the fingers out, Peter had to stop himself from trying to follow as his hips slid back of their own volition, chasing Dean’s hand.

 

“Hold on, greedy,” Dean chuckled. Peter felt fingers at his entrance again, slick with more lube, and now Dean pressed in three fingers, crooking them slightly, holding Peter’s waist in place with his other hand as he searched. When Dean finally hit the spot he’d been looking for, Peter couldn’t help the buck of his hips and the gasp that escaped him. Dean’s fingers tightened on Peter’s hip, and he pulled his fingers halfway out. “I thought I said to hold still,” he said warningly. “You want me to stop?”

 

“No.” Peter’s voice sounded strangled and deep. “Please.”

 

“Please what?” Dean drew his fingers out a little further, teasing them around Peter’s entrance.

 

“Please fuck me already!”

 

Dean chuckled again, but Peter heard the cap on the tube of lubricant being flipped once more, and the tear of a plastic wrapper. He squirmed impatiently until he felt the warm, blunt head of Dean’s cock nudging at his ass. “You ready?”

 

Peter braced his arms against the bed covers and relaxed. “Yeah.”

 

Dean pushed in slowly, one hand feeding his slicked erection into Peter, the other wrapped tightly around Peter’s hip. Peter sighed in pleasure as the blunt head of Dean’s cock slipped past the first tight ring of muscle. Dean held still a moment. “You okay?” he asked.

 

“I won’t break,” Peter said. “I can’t.” He pushed back further onto Dean’s cock, provoking a startled gasp, and he smirked into the covers.

 

“Fine.” Dean buried himself the rest of the way in one rough thrust, and it was Peter’s turn to gasp. He pulled out almost all the way rocked back in a little, teasing Peter now with short strokes. It seemed now that his competitive spirit was awakened, he wasn’t above playing dirty.

 

“Please,” Peter groaned.

 

“Please what?” Dean asked, and Peter could hear the smirk in his voice.

 

“Come on.” Peter tried to push back, to have Dean fill him up again, but Dean stopped him with a hand at the small of his back. “Deeeean,” he whined.

 

 _Wow. That sounds familiar._ “All right.”

 

Peter felt Dean’s hand shift from his hip to his shoulder, and now when Dean thrust in, he had plenty of leverage. It felt like he was hitting the deepest part of Peter with every thrust. Peter found the rhythm easily and pushed back against Dean with every thrust. As they picked up the pace, moving together, Dean’s hand, damp with sweat, slipped off Peter’s shoulder, and his nails raked a trail down Peter’s back.

 

“Sorry,” Dean began, but then he stopped moving and stopped talking, and Peter knew he was watching the scratches fade into nothing as his healing ability kicked in. “Damn that’s handy.”

 

Peter craned his neck back over his shoulder to smirk at Dean. “Yeah it is,” he said mischievously.

 

Dean pulled Peter up by the shoulders until they were both kneeling, Peter’s back pressed to Dean’s chest. Dean began to rotate his hips, maddening little thrusts that made Peter squirm. Then his frustration was forgotten as Dean’s hand trailed around Peter’s waist and encircled his cock.

 

“You like that?” Dean whispered. Peter moaned in appreciation as Dean’s hand worked swiftly and surely over his throbbing cock. Dean’s hands were rough, calloused, not at all like Nathan’s. The friction felt wonderful.

 

“Yeah, you’re alright.” Dean gripped tightly around the base of Peter’s cock and at the same time sunk his teeth into Peter’s shoulder, right at the juncture of his neck. Peter jerked forward into Dean’s hand as a shudder of pleasure ran through him. Dean’s chuckle sounded warm and low in Peter’s ear. “Real handy.”

 

Peter whined, a desperate sound at the back of his throat, as Dean continued to stroke him. He was fast and ruthless, and kept up those maddening little circles with his hips until Peter was riding the edge.

 

“I got you,” Dean breathed, and Peter’s hips jerked forward, coming in Dean’s hand, slumping backwards against Dean’s chest. He felt weightless, boneless, and wondered for a second if he was accidentally flying before realizing that no, he just felt damn good.

 

Peter’s heart slowed from a gallop in his chest, and as his breathing evened out, he squirmed in Dean’s arms, pushing back on the cock still buried in his ass. “Hey, let me,” Peter said, prying Dean’s hands off.

 

Dean watched with an anticipatory grin as Peter pulled him further onto the bed. Peter pushed Dean onto his back on climbed on top of him, lowering himself onto Dean’s straining cock. At first he moved slowly, raising himself up until Dean slid out of him, then lowering himself back down all the way. Dean kept his eyes fixed on Peter’s, each of them refusing to look away in some bizarre and ridiculously erotic staring content.

 

Peter sped up, squeezing his muscles around Dean with every stroke and listening to the sweet sound of Dean’s labored breathing, his heart pounding, pink tongue darting out to lick dry lips. He was holding on for dear life, so close to letting go, but too stubborn to do so. Peter finally gave up the staring contest, and leaned down to kiss Dean, to capture that tongue and suck it into his mouth. As soon as he did so, he felt Dean jerk inside of him, his whole body shuddering as he came, mouth falling open and slack beneath Peter’s.

 

Peter took advantage of Dean’s momentary incapacitation to kiss him well and thoroughly, all through the aftershocks of his orgasm. When Dean came back to himself enough to start reciprocating, Peter reluctantly climbed off, settling himself next to Dean on the sheets, damp with sweat.

 

“So,” Dean said, kicking away sheets that were hopelessly tangled. “How many of those you think we can fit in before check out?”  
\--

 

Nathan pulled his jacket collar up against the rain and took another cursory look around this section of Greenmount Cemetery, at the stone pillars by the gate that Sam had seen in the diner parking lot. Never mind that they’d driven through the night to get here; despite Sam’s vision there was apparently nothing to find. He looked up through the gloom to see Sam returning, looking very much like a drowned guinea pig. “Find anything?”

 

“Nothing,” Sam reported glumly. “The rain washed everything away.” He shook wet hair out of his eyes. “At least we know they were here.”

 

“We do?”

 

“There’s a devil’s trap in the big mausoleum over there. Dean must have painted it.”

 

Nathan stared at Sam for a few seconds, waiting for him to explain. When he didn’t, Nathan prompted, “What’s a devil’s trap?”

 

“Oh, right.” Sam smiled indulgently. It made Nathan want to wipe the smug expression off Sam’s face—though whether with a punch or with a kiss, he couldn’t say. “It’s like a roach motel for demons. Keeps them contained so you can exorcise them.”

 

“Exorcism. Like in your fancy book,” Nathan said slowly.

 

“That’s right.”

 

Nathan shook his head in disbelief. “Great. That’s perfect.” He turned to begin the trek back to the car, but Sam caught his arm.

 

“Listen, you can think I’m crazy all you want, but Dean knows what he’s doing. He was trying to set a trap for the demon, which means she must be in town.”

 

“Let’s say that’s true,” Nathan replied tersely. “How do we find her? Or find our brothers, for that matter? Any clues from those visions of yours?”

 

“Excuse me.” A young man dressed in coveralls and boots was approaching through the drizzle. “Can I help you gentlemen find something?” He stuck the spade he was carrying into the ground and leaned on the handle.

 

Nathan narrowed his eyes, squinting through the rain. There was something strange about the man, the way he moved. Nathan had been hunted for long enough that he knew the look of someone stalking his prey.

 

_Nathan watched in morbid fascination as the man’s blood pooled on the sidewalk. He couldn’t seem to draw his eyes away until Peter grabbed his arm._

__

 

_“Nathan… Why…?”_

__

 

_Nathan lowered the gun. His hand was shaking now, but it hadn’t before. When Peter had needed him, he’d been steady. “He could have hurt you, Peter. He was going to.” Nathan kicked the gun away from the dead man’s hand. “One bullet in the back of the head, Peter. That’s all it takes, and I could lose you.”_

__

 

_“I’m fine,” Peter said. He sounded more exasperated than contrite. “We need to know who sent him.” He pulled away, and it took Nathan a second to realize he was headed for the trunk of the Bentley._

__

 

_“No.” Nathan was after him in two paces, grabbing his arm and pulling him back. “We’re not using Claire’s blood to heal this guy. Just let it alone.”_

__

 

_“And you’re okay with letting him die?”_

__

 

_“He’s gone, Peter. And you’re still here. That’s all that matters.”_

 

“No sir,” Sam said. “I think we found what we need.”

 

“That so?” The man regarded the two of them critically. “Got family here?” He paused, and his thoughtful look transformed into a grin. “Brothers, maybe?”

 

“Nathan.” Sam stepped up and grabbed him by the elbow. “Get back.”

 

“Sam Winchester. I’m surprised at you. You think I’d hurt a hair on his head when I could have you?” The man’s eyes turned black, opaque as stone.

 

“Run!” Sam pulled Nathan back, and in the same motion tossed something at the black-eyed groundskeeper. Nathan heard screaming and the hiss of steam as he stumbled into a run. Sam was right behind him, screaming, “Run!” Nathan saw a grey blur up ahead: the looming bulk of a mausoleum. He put on an extra burst of speed, remembering Sam’s words; the devil’s trap might be able to help them.

 

Nathan heard a thump behind him and threw a glance over his shoulder. The man—no, the demon—had caught up with Sam, and the two of them were grappling in the wet grass.

 

“Damn it.” Nathan skidded to a stop and pulled out his gun.

 

The demon flipped Sam onto his back, laughing. “I am so very looking forward to watching you bleed.” The demon’s giggle was nasty: a harsh, low chuckle as he wrapped his hands around Sam’s throat. Sam fought back, trying to push the demon off, and then Nathan couldn’t make out anything but a confused jumble of limbs.

 

Nathan swore and lowered his gun. He was a good shot, but he couldn’t risk hitting Sam. Then the demon pinned Sam on his stomach, face pressed into the ground, and this time Nathan jumped, letting his feet leave the ground and thinking _up_ and _out_. He flew at the demon, tackling him off Sam and coming up in an untidy roll.

 

“Come on!” Sam was on his feet again, waving frantically at Nathan. They ran, and this time they made it to the mausoleum entrance before the demon caught up.

 

The demon grabbed Sam by the arm and swung him into the side of the mausoleum, pressing an arm across his throat. “I have to admit I was expecting a little more from the Boy King. Your brother’s causing all kinds of trouble, but you... I am not impressed,” the demon sneered.

 

Nathan’s eyes went to the bag Sam had dropped, lying half open in the doorway of the mausoleum. Nathan shifted toward it, smoothly and not too fast. There had to be something in there that could harm a demon. It seemed to be too busy taunting Sam to worry about Nathan. He pulled the backpack open, rummaging around for something—anything—when his hand closed on a flask. He pulled it out of the bag and saw it was marked with a cross. All those Sunday school classes rushed back to him: this was holy water.

 

“What you got there, friend?” Nathan looked up to see the demon’s dead eyes focused on him.

 

“Throw it,” Sam croaked.

 

Nathan ripped the cap off the flask and splashed the contents at the demon. It hissed in pain and lost its grip on Sam. Sam leapt for the mausoleum door, pulling Nathan with him.

 

“It’s time to stop running, boys,” the demon called after them. “My sister has important plans for you.”

 

In the darkness inside the little crypt, Sam pushed Nathan against the far wall and flattened himself right along side. The demon, following just steps behind them, ran into an invisible barrier. Its eyes snapped up. Nathan followed its gaze to see an elaborate symbol emblazoned with spray paint on the ceiling.

 

“No. No!” The demon leapt forward, stopped again by an invisible barrier. Nathan stared in disbelief at the symbol—it looked like occult nonsense to him, but it obviously had a real effect on this thing… this demon.

 

Sam started to speak, and Nathan caught a handful of Latin words. “You have an exorcism memorized?” he muttered.

 

Sam just kept going. “Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus omnis satanica potestas…”

 

“This will not stop her,” the demon shouted. “She knows who you are, and she will kill you. And your brother.”

 

Sam stopped chanting a moment, but only to favor the demon with a terrifyingly cold smile. He continued the exorcism. “Ergo draco maledicte et omnis legio diabolica adjuramus te.”

 

The demon pounded against the barrier, screaming. “I know what you’ve done! Abomination! She’ll cleanse this world of your kind, you’ll see.” The demon turned its attention to Nathan. “And you, too. I can smell it on you. You’ll both die under her blade.”

 

Nathan looked at Sam for guidance, but Sam just continued his chanting. “Deus Israhel ipse truderit virtutem et fortitudinem plebi Suae.”

 

“Both of you are damned! Degenerates! Atrocities! Damned!”

 

“Benedictus deus. Gloria patri,” Sam finished. The demon fell to its knees, screaming. Thick black smoke rushed out of its mouth, blotting out the ceiling, soaking up all the light, until it roared away into the ground.

 

Sam looked from Nathan to the body of the man lying below the devil’s trap, and back to Nathan. “You believe me now?” he asked.  
\--

 

The arm across his chest was too light to be Sam’s. That was Dean’s first clue that something wasn’t quite normal about this morning. He was awake enough to start sorting through memories, and he didn’t remember going to a bar last night. Still, he could’ve picked up a girl any number of places. But weren’t they in the middle of a case? Dean’s sleepy brain caught up to his thought process. He remembered the hunt—the demon. Then he remembered Peter.

 

Peter stirred beside him, his hand curling gently against Dean’s chest.

 

“Hey,” Dean whispered. “We should get up.”

 

“Umph,” Peter protested.

 

“Dude, I gotta pee.”

 

Peter pulled away enough for Dean to slide out of bed. After answering the call of nature, Dean stole a look in the mirror. His hair was tousled, his naked torso bore a fading set of scratches, and more than one sucked-on bruise decorated the inside of his thighs. Well-fucked was the only word that applied.

 

_“Do I want to know?” Sam grumbled._

__

 

_“I’ll tell you all about it,” Dean said. He proudly pulled off his t-shirt to show Sam the scratches on his back. “Wildcat.”_

__

 

_Sam refused to look at him, and went back to his laptop instead._

__

 

_“What, jealous?”_

__

 

_Sam grabbed Dean by his belt, shoved him onto the bed, and was straddling him before Dean knew what was happening. “Not jealous,” Sam breathed against his face. “You always come home to me.”_

 

When Dean returned from the bathroom, Peter was sitting up in bed, sheets tossed aside, looking like a debauched cherub, complete with half-hard cock. He didn’t have a mark on him. “Hey. You freaking out?”

 

“No,” Dean snapped automatically.

 

Peter god damn smirked at him, and now Dean had an inkling of why smirking always irritated Sammy. “You look freaked out.”

 

Dean launched himself onto the bed, pressing Peter down by his shoulders and wiping the smirk off his face with a kiss that was all teeth and dominance.

 

Peter went slack beneath him, and Dean growled his satisfaction. He would never—not with Sammy. Let Sam use him any way he wanted; he could take all of Sammy’s darkness, but Dean couldn’t ever hurt Sam. He was hard-wired against it, so his darkness, his desire to hurt—the part of him that came out during a hunt—that was never for Sam. Peter could take it, though. Take it all.

 

“I won’t break,” Peter whispered. He’d probably heard that entire jumble. Somehow, the thought didn’t bother Dean has much as it should have.

 

“Yeah.” Dean pushed Peter’s head back, stretching out the long line of his throat. Peter opened his mouth wide, and Dean wondered if he’d read his mind, or just sensed what he needed. Either way, he didn’t mind. He slid up the bed to straddle Peter’s shoulders, and fed his cock into Peter’s open mouth.

 

Dean was only half hard, but Peter wasted no time in getting him the rest of the way there, sucking and slurping like a pro. When Dean pushed his hips further forward, Peter didn’t struggle. Instead, he wrapped his arms around the back of Dean’s thighs and pulled him in deeper, opening his throat for Dean’s cock.

 

“Jesus,” Dean whispered.

 

Peter bobbed his head up and down, clenching his throat around Dean’s cock, his breath tickling the hair on Dean’s balls. It didn’t take long before Dean had his hands fisted in the tangled sheets, back arching as he came down Peter’s throat.

 

Peter slid out from underneath him, grinning slyly. “I’ll be in the shower,” he said, grabbing a towel from the floor. “You wanna check us out?”

 

“Yeah.” Dean nodded slowly, his thought process coming back slowly after his brain just melted. It was easy, falling into a normal routine: check in, fuck, check out, hunt, repeat. Peter might not be Sam, but he wasn’t bad to have around. “We’ve still got a hunt to take care of.”  
\--

“Do they always die?” Nathan asked.

Sam looked up from checking the groundskeeper’s body for any clues as to where the demon had been lately. “Not always,” he said. “If the demon hasn’t hurt the body, a human can survive an exorcism. There’s a chance, at least. Beats the alternative.”

“What alternative?”

Sam hesitated a moment, but was watching him carefully. “There’s a gun,” he said slowly. “It kills anything.”

“That antique gun you carry?”

Sam nodded. “Kills vampires, werewolves, demons. Anything. But… If someone’s possessed and you want the host to live, I’d stick with the devil’s trap.”

Thy pushed the mausoleum’s door closed, sealing the unfortunate man’s corpse inside, and trudged back to the car. Sam didn’t particularly want to talk about what the demon had said, so he was relieved when Nathan didn’t ask. In truth, he wasn’t entirely certain what the demon meant. Sure, he was sick to death of being told to step up and claim his place as the demon messiah, but this seemed like something else.

 

“Hey, you okay? That guy hurt you?” Nathan asked once they were finally back in the Bentley and pulling out of the cemetery.

 

“No. No, I’m fine.”

 

“Are you sure? Break anything? Bleeding anywhere?”

 

“I said I was fine,” Sam snapped. “Let’s get out of here before someone finds the body. Dean might still be in town. I need to look at a phone book.”

 

“Sure there’s nothing else about that vision you want to share?”

 

Sam clenched his hand into a fist as he felt a blush creep up his cheeks. “Nope.” No, he certainly didn’t want to share a detailed description of Dean’s throaty moans, of quick flashes of bare skin in a darkened room. He’d been lucky that the room’s decor, vaguely glimpsed in the dark recesses of the vision, had tickled his memory. There was no reason for his visions to turn into embarrassing porn-o-grams… The visions were always about death. Well, almost always. When it came to Dean being in danger, his powers tended to manifest themselves in strange ways.

 

“Fine.” Nathan waited in the car while Sam found the address of the first motel in the yellow pages—Academy Motel—and got vague directions from the gas station attendant. When Sam returned to relay the directions, Nathan didn’t say a word. In the absence of the radio (and of any Metallica tapes), the car was eerily quiet.

 

As Nathan continued his stony silence, Sam’s mind wandered back to the demon at the cemetery. The demon had threatened Dean, which wasn’t anything new, but he’d also called out Nathan who, as far as Sam knew, had no connection to the yellow-eyed demon or any of that destiny crap. There had to be something else connecting them that the demon had known about.

 

“This the place?”

 

Sam was startled out of his reverie. The place looked only vaguely familiar—just one more in the long line of crappy motels that made up his life. He was sure it was the one he’d seen in his vision—or at least, pretty sure. It was the first one in the yellow pages, so it had to be the one. “Yeah. This is it.”

 

Sam climbed out of the car, and trusted that Nathan would follow him. A bell rang above the door as he stepped into the dingy office, but the man at the desk didn’t look up. Sam wondered if every motel manager in the world watched The Price is Right.

 

“Excuse me,” Sam said. “I’m looking for Jim Rockford.”

 

“That so?” The main raised an eyebrow, disinterested.

 

“Listen sir,” Nathan broke in. “This guy is not a good person. I’m looking to save you some trouble. So I’d appreciate anything you remember.” He slapped down his FBI badge on the counter in a sudden and strangely forceful gesture. Sam shook off a sudden stab of admiration and arousal, and focused his attention back on the attendant.

 

The balding, pot-bellied man shrugged. “Come in yesterday dawn, two of them. This guy, Rockford, and another one. Went out, come back in late last night, checked out this morning. Not two hours ago.”

 

“Checked out? Where were they going?” Sam asked.

 

“Didn’t say.” Nathan gave the guy a stern look, and he elaborated. “Drove out toward the interstate.”

 

“We’re going to need to see the room,” said Nathan.

 

With another indifferent shrug, the manager led them down the row of wooden doors to number 412. He opened it with one key from a jangling ring. “Thanks,” Nathan said as he caught the door before it swung too far open. “We’ll let you know if we need anything else.”

 

The man shrugged again and shuffled away, and Nathan gestured to Sam to precede him into the room.

 

It was stuffy in there, and as soon as Sam breathed he was assaulted by the smell of sex: musk and sweat and salt. Behind him, Nathan stepped inside and closed the door. Sam found himself blushing, though whether he was embarrassed for himself or for Dean, he couldn’t say. It wasn’t like Dean to pick up a girl in the middle of a hunt. Well, okay, maybe, but while he had Peter tagging along? He suspected, from what he’d seen in his vision, that Dean had done _something_ of the sort, but still, this seemed strange.

 

Nathan took a few steps into the room, his face inscrutable. He ran a hand over the coverlet of the bed closest to the door; it obviously hadn’t been slept in.

 

It hit Sam then, although he should have figured it out sooner. He’d seen Peter’s picture, and he knew Dean, knew what he liked. Still, the realization made his stomach drop. He glanced over at Nathan—sure he must have come to the same conclusion—but Nathan betrayed no emotion as he examined the room.

 

“If your brother really knows what he’s doing, he won’t have left anything behind. Anything about the case,” Nathan said finally.

 

“No,” Sam replied. His eyes ghosted over the condom wrappers by the bed, the squeezed-empty-to-the-last-drop tube of lube on the nightstand that Sam knew had been in his goddamn backpack that he’d left in the Impala a week ago. The sheets of the far bed were a disaster, and Sam tried not to stare at them, tried not to imagine what happened there last night.

 

_Dean threw the duffel of weapons on the floor and slammed the door before tackling Sam onto the bed._

__

 

_“Hey,” Sam protested. “Can’t you at least—mmph!”_

__

 

_Dean effectively cut him off by shoving his tongue down Sam’s throat. He broke the kiss only to pull Sam’s shirt over his head, and he breathed against Sam’s cheek, “Don’t you do that again.”_

__

 

_“What, this?” Sam bit Dean’s neck, just below his ear._

__

 

_Dean stilled for a minute, and a little moan escaped before he shook Sam off. “No, bitchface.” Dean straddled Sam’s waist. “Throwing yourself between me and a vampire.” He ground down against Sam’s crotch._

__

 

_Sam grabbed Dean by the arms and pulled him down so he could kiss him again. When he came up for air, he said, “If it makes you act like this, maybe I should do it more often.”_

__

 

_Dean ground against him, and Sam dug his fingers harder into Dean’s arms. “What can I say? Hunting makes me horny.”_

 

As Nathan searched the closets and the bathroom, Sam took deep breaths, trying to tamp down the irrational anger. It didn’t make sense—Sam wasn’t a jealous guy. He couldn’t be, with Dean for a brother. But if this Peter guy was hunting with Dean, and on top of that, they were—.

 

“I found something,” Nathan called from the bathroom. Sam tore his eyes away from the bed and came to look.

 

Nathan was crouched by the wastebasket holding a bloody shirt. Sam’s heart leapt into his throat before he realized the shirt wasn’t Dean’s. “It’s Peter’s,” Nathan said. “The one he was wearing the last time I saw him.”

 

Sam’s heart settled, but only a little. “Do you think he…?”

 

“He’s fine.” Nathan pulled a paper towel from the dispenser on the sink, wrapped the shirt in it, and threw it back in the garbage before pushing past Sam out of the bathroom.

 

Sam followed, confused. “Are you sure? That looked like a lot of blood.”

 

“It’s all dried. Hours old.” Nathan’s eyes darted to the rumpled bed, then back to Sam. “Obviously he’s healthy enough.”

 

Sam stopped breathing for a moment. It was too much to hope that Nathan didn’t realize what was going on here. In an instant, he was furious with Dean for putting him in this position, for ditching him and continuing the job himself and for goddamn sleeping around.

 

“Forget it,” Nathan said suddenly. “It’s not important.”

 

“Not important?” Sam heard the rage in his voice and reigned himself in, brought his volume and his temper back under control, shoved it all inside to deal with later. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re right. Sorry.”

 

“Come on.” Nathan put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Let’s go.”  
\--


	4. Chapter 4

Dean eased off the gas as they rolled onto the Mueller’s street. The Impala’s rumble dropped to a low purr, and Dean squinted out the window, looking for the right address. “1425. Huh.” Dean eyed the quiet exterior of the house, devoid of crime scene tape.

 

“I don’t get it,” Peter said from the passenger seat. “It took the twins and it’s leaving the rest of the family alone?”

 

Dean guided the car over to the curb and put it in park. “Weird. I mean, all the other families the demon’s hit, they’re dead in twenty-four, forty-eight hours maybe.”

 

“That’s good though, right?” Peter asked slowly. “We’ve got another chance to save them?”

 

“If she was gonna take these guys out, she’d have done it already. C’mon.” Dean climbed out of the Impala.

 

Peter scrambled after him. “What are we doing?”

 

Dean walked right up to the front door and knocked, bold as brass. Peter gave an inarticulate sound of protest, and Dean smirked. _Oh little brothers. Always cranky in the morning._

 

A worn-looking, middle aged woman answered the door. “Yes?”

 

“Mrs. Mueller?” Dean asked. She nodded. “I’m Alan, this is Chad. We’re with the Children’s Action Network. Could we talk to you about Jesse?”

 

Her face lit up instantly. “Have you seen him? Is he okay?”

 

“We don’t know, ma’am, but one of our regulars at the shelter came in last night telling us about his new friend and, well, we thought you had a right to know.” Dean favored her with his best sincere smile, and she melted.

 

“Come in, please.” She ushered them into the living room. Dean ignored Peter’s sharp elbow in his side. “My husband’s out checking around town, some of Jesse’s old haunts. I wanted to stay here in case he…” Her voice hitched in her throat and died. “Can I get you boys something? A drink?”

 

They hadn’t stopped for coffee on the way here, and some caffeine would definitely make this situation seem brighter. “I’ll take—.”

 

“We’re fine.” Peter, speaking at last, cut him off with a glare.

 

Mrs. Mueller sat nervously, perching on the edge of the couch without taking her eyes from Dean. “You said someone saw him? Where? Is he all right?”

 

“Ma’am, kids come to our shelter for lots of different reasons,” Dean began. Once he’d started lying, the rest came easily. “One boy told us he’d met another kid, name of Jesse, who’d just run away from home, but he couldn’t get him to come in. Chad and I saw the Amber alert that came out yesterday and thought it might be the same boy.”

 

“You think it was really him?” she asked eagerly.

 

“Is Jesse the kind of boy who might run away?” Dean asked.

 

“All this, with Josh… It’s been so hard on him, but I never once thought…" She trailed off into silence, then shook her head. "They’re good boys. I know they had a rough start in life, and they still don’t talk much about before. They weren’t in the county system for that long, but before that, well, their dad wasn’t good for much.”

 

“Josh and Jesse were in foster care?” Peter asked.

 

“Yes. Until two years ago, when we adopted them.”

 

“That was very good of you,” Peter said. Dean smiled; it was always good to have someone to do the touchy-feely thing with witnesses. Maybe he and Peter didn’t make such a bad team after all.

 

“No one wants teenage boys, you know, but they deserved a chance. I met their real father once, before we signed the papers to adopt. Alcoholic good-for-nothing. Still lives up there in Youngstown It’s amazing the boys came to any good at all, considering they come from that.” She looked between Dean and Peter hopefully. “What else did he say? About Jesse? Did he say where to look for him?”

 

“We’ll try to find out everything we can,” Dean said. “We didn’t want to get your hopes up if it wasn’t him, but you deserve to know.”

 

“Thank you.” She grabbed Dean’s hands and squeezed them warmly. “Thank you. Please, if you hear anything, anything else, call me right away.”

 

“Yes ma’am,” Dean lied.

 

Dean and Peter left the house in silence. Dean had more than enough experience with Sam’s moodiness to recognize the beginning of a sulk. At least Peter waited until they were safely back in the Impala before he got his bitch on. “Why did we have to put that poor lady through all that?” he demanded

 

“Listen. I had a hunch, I followed it. Now we know why the demon didn’t go after the rest of the family.”

 

“Yeah, I guess.” Peter said huffily.

 

_“Dean, I don’t believe you! Those kids just lost their father!”_

__

 

_“Yeah, and if we don’t salt and burn him quick, they’re gonna lose their mom, too.”_

__

 

_“Maybe, but did you really need to bring up all the bad crap he ever did?”_

__

 

_“We’re sure it’s him now, aren’t we?”_

__

 

_“That’s not the point. How would you feel if someone tried to dig up all the bad shit from our childhood?”_

__

 

_“Our dad isn’t a restless spirit.” At Sam’s accusing eyes, he shrugged. “Well, he’s not out killing people. Let’s go do this.”_

 

“Hey, there’s nothing wrong with giving people hope,” Dean muttered as he started the Impala.

 

“False hope. Jesse’s gotta be dead by now,” Peter said darkly, slouching in his seat.

 

“But the demon’s not coming after the family, and now we know why.”

 

“Yeah. So where does that leave us?”

 

Dean pulled out onto the road and pointed them toward the interstate. "Driving to Youngstown."  
\--

 

Nathan drove them to the interstate in silence. He stopped at the gas station closest to the on ramp, and a couple of twenties netted him a confirmation that yes, a ’67 Impala had gassed up about an hour before, and they’d headed west.

 

When Nathan reported this back to Sam, he seemed less than enthused. Nathan couldn’t blame him. After what they’d seen in that motel room, the thought of chasing Peter and this Dean character across the northeast made him want to punch something.

 

“So we just drive north and hope to run into them?” Sam asked.

 

“Better ideas? Plan on getting another vision?” He was only being snappy with Sam because he was on edge. That was all.

 

“Library,” Sam said suddenly. “Baltimore has a better library than crappy small town Pennsylvania. Maybe we’ll find something useful.”

 

“No internet,” Nathan said automatically.

 

“Nathan, we are running out of options here! Why the hell—?”

 

“Listen,” Nathan said through gritted teeth. “If I concede to the possibility that demons exist, can you just accept that there’s someone out there who can intercept and read electronic messages, and if she finds Peter or me, she’ll kill us?”

 

Sam blinked. “Um… Sure. I guess so.”

 

“Then we’ll go to the library,” Nathan said, and started the car.

 

“In the morning. It’s after five,” Sam pointed out.

 

Nathan squinted into the setting sun; he hadn’t realized it had gotten so late. “Right. And we did spend last night getting chased around a cemetery.”

 

They drove back to the Academy Motel. Nathan explained to the indifferent manager that they were going to need to stake out the room next to the one the suspects had used, in case they came back. Wordlessly, the manager handed over the key.

 

Maybe it was just déjà vu from having been here this morning, but this place seemed depressingly familiar; just one more in the long line of crappy motels that had become his life.

 

_“Isn’t there an ice machine?” Nathan pulled on his boxers and slid to the edge of the bed to scrounge up his sandals. “Out to the right, under the stairs?”_

__

 

_“No, that was at the last place,” Peter said from where he was sprawled over the pillows._

__

 

_“Well it’s too damn hot to drink lukewarm tap water without ice. Did I mention how much I hate Texas?”_

__

 

_“Sweaty, huh?” Peter crept up behind Nathan on the bed and ran one finger down Nathan’s naked back, turning sweat to frost. Nathan shivered and pressed back into Peter’s touch. “Still too hot?”_

 

In room 414, Nathan dropped his duffel by the bed furthest from the door, and stood staring at it. Despite the lack of sleep in the past twenty-four hours, he wasn’t tired. He kept seeing Peter’s bloody shirt in his mind, wondering what trouble his brother might have gotten into to get that injured. Wondering whether this _Dean_ guy was likely to get him into that kind of trouble again.

 

“So… Drink?” Sam asked from the doorway.

 

Nathan shrugged. Peter wasn’t here to tell him no. “Yes please.”  
\--

 

“So help me out here,” Peter said over James Hetfield’s rocking vocals. “What are we supposed to do in Youngstown?”

 

“If the demon isn’t going after the adopted family, she must be going after the real family,” Dean said. “Maybe we can beat her there.”

 

Another verse of Whiplash went by, with Peter tapping along absently on the seat before he said, “Can I ask you something?”

 

Dean sighed. He’d been dreading the moment that Peter wanted to have a heart-to-heart. _Is it in the younger brother guidebook somewhere that you have to talk about every feeling you ever had?_ “What?”

 

Peter hesitated a moment, blinking at Dean. Then he asked, “Where’d you get this car? It’s really great.”

 

Dean grinned. That certainly wasn’t the question he’d been expecting. “My dad gave it to me when I turned 18.”

 

“He knows what you like, at least,” Peter said with a lopsided smirk. “You two must be close.”

 

“We were, I guess,” Dean said. Funny how he might not have thought so two years ago, but things looked different from where he sat now. “Close as anyone ever got to him. You know how it is.”

 

“Yeah, I get it,” Peter said. “My Dad and I didn’t get along too well.”

 

“Maybe it’s a little brother thing. Sam and Dad were always butting heads.”

 

The road rolled away under them, and the tape flipped over to the B side. Phantom Lord began to bare. “So, your dad was a hunter?” Peter asked during the guitar solo.

 

“Yep. Taught me everything I know.”

 

“I wish my dad…” Peter’s mouth quirked up in that little half-smile. “Well, we always wish things could have been different, don’t we?”

 

Dean spared Peter a sideways glance. “Did he have those freaky power things?”

 

“I think so. They’re supposed to be genetic, but he and my mom never told us… Anything, really.”

 

Dean nodded, glad that Peter didn’t seem to mind talking about this stuff. _You never know what kind of creature knowledge will come in handy down the road._ “It’s genetic? So what about your brother. Does he do that healing thing?”

 

Peter shook his head. “They’re different for everyone. Mine are actually just borrowed.”

 

“Huh?”

 

“I’m an empath. Which just means that I can use other people’s powers.”

 

“Like Rogue,” Dean said thoughtfully. When Peter blinked at him, he elaborated, “In X-Men.”

 

“Oh, right,” Peter said. “Except I don’t have to touch them.”

 

“So there’s somebody else out there who can take a shotgun blast to the chest and walk away?”

 

“Several someones, actually,” Peter said.

 

“That’s so cool,” Dean grinned. As freaky psychic powers went, that would be a useful one to have.

 

“Hey, does…?”

 

“What?”

 

“Your brother, you said he has abilities, too.”

 

“It’s not the same thing,” Dean said quickly. “It’s not a genetic deal. We know where his came from.”

 

Peter looked at him expectantly.

 

“And that’s it,” Dean said. He’d said more than he should already; he certainly wasn’t going to start baring his soul about demon blood and destiny and all that crap.

 

Peter settled back in his seat, a smile playing on his lips.

 

“What?” Dean asked suspiciously. “You reading my mind again?”

 

“No,” Peter scowled. “Just thinking about Nathan. He always knows how to end a conversation when he doesn’t want to ‘share his feelings.’” This last he said in a mocking tone that must have been an imitation of his brother. “Used to be a lawyer.” His smile faded.

 

“Sam wanted to be a lawyer.” Dean wasn’t sure why he said it; Sammy wasn’t something he discussed with anyone, but this was hardly top-secret. Anyway, it was no more than Peter had shared with him. “He’s smart enough, too. Did good in college. Didn’t quite make it to law school, though.”

 

_When Sam came in with burgers, Dean was watching Law and Order SVU. He considered flipping channels and pretending he’d been watching basketball, but finally decided to stand his ground._

__

 

_“Um… Law and Order?” Sam said incredulously as he handed Dean a wax-paper-wrapped double bacon cheeseburger._

__

 

_“Dude, Detective Benson is hot.”_

__

 

_“Uh… yeah.” Sam plopped down on the couch and started in on his own burger. After only a few minutes of watching, he pointed accusingly at the screen. “That’s ridiculous. You couldn’t just take that without a warrant. The whole case could get thrown out of court.” Sam laughed through his mouthful of fries, and Dean managed a weak laugh in answer. “I know that and I never even started law school. Don’t these guys have consultants working for them?”_

__

 

_Dean felt a strange, unidentifiable pang in his stomach. “Yeah, this show is crap.”_

 

“Why’d he leave school?” Peter asked.

 

“I came and got him. I needed his help, and then… He could never go back.” Dean hadn’t thought of it in exactly those terms before, but it was true. Sam wouldn’t ever be able to go back to school. Not with his rap sheet.

 

“When I needed Nathan’s help, he left everything for me,” Peter said. “His family, his future. I took all that away from him.”

 

Dean shook his head. “’S not your fault. Can’t make someone give up what they weren’t willing to lose.”

 

“You believe that?”

 

Dean let more of the road go by: so much that he wasn’t sure if he planned to respond until his answer slipped out. “No.”  
\--

Sam remembered a place a few blocks down from the motel, a cheap dive called Swallow at the Hollow. Turned out the place had a fair-sized crowd for a Tuesday night. Sam and Nathan managed to find a slightly sticky table in a dark corner. When the waitress, a skinny woman with dirty-blonde hair and a smoker’s cough, came by, Sam ordered a Miller Lite and Nathan ordered a double whiskey, neat.

 

Sam raised his eyebrow at that, but didn’t comment. Instead, he said, “If we can’t find anything at the library, we can check the papers for the past couple days. Maybe they found a lead that took them out of town.”

 

“Yeah.” Nathan had tossed back his drink and was signaling to the waitress to bring him another before he noticed Sam’s look of concern. He grimaced and took only small sips of the second whiskey the waitress brought. Sam took the hint and shut up, content to join Nathan in staring off into space in companionable silence. It was different than all the drinking alone Nathan had done last year, but the buzz of the whisky as it slid down his throat was warm and familiar.

 

_“How are the boys?” Nathan asked. He was gripping the phone so hard his hand shook._

__

 

_“They’re fine,” Heidi said brightly. Nathan knew the tone—the one that meant she was seething but trying to remain calm. “They miss their dad.”_

__

 

_“How are you?” It was a stupid thing to say, but he had to know._

__

 

_“How do you think I am, Nathan?” He heard her suck in a breath, trying to hold it together. She always held it together. Nathan wondered if she’d picked that up from Angela. “I’m much better. Things are going really well.”_

__

 

_“I’m glad.” And he was. Heidi deserved so much more than what Nathan had to give nowadays. If she’d stayed… But he didn’t allow himself to think about that._

__

 

_“You sound better.”_

__

 

_“Thanks.”_

__

 

_“You still drinking?”_

__

 

_Nathan gave a tense laugh. “Peter doesn’t even let me order wine with dinner.”_

__

 

_“Peter.” Her voice was strained. “Well good for him.”_

__

 

_There was silence on the line for a moment. “Heidi…”_

__

 

_“Don’t ask to see the boys. They don’t need the extra stress right now. Getting started in a new school—again… It’s hard.”_

__

 

_And his fault. He’d put them in danger. But Heidi was polite enough not to say so. “They like the new school?”_

__

 

_“Monty’s teacher thinks he might be dyslexic. We’re taking him to see a specialist on Friday.”_

__

 

_Normal things. Family things. And Nathan wasn’t a part of them anymore. “Right. He should see a specialist.”_

__

 

_“I have to go,” Heidi said. “Nathan… Be well.”_

__

 

_“Tell the boys—,” Nathan began, but Heidi was already gone._

__

 

_He listened to the dial tone a moment before he was able to unwrap his fingers from the receiver. Then he walked across the street to the discount liquor store._

 

“Seems like you know your way around a bottle of whiskey,” Sam said, and swigged down more of his beer.

 

“Lifetime of experience.” Nathan leaned back in the rickety chair and took stock of the bar patrons. They were the typical early drinkers: older single men and a few desperate-looking women.

 

“You and Peter go drinking a lot?” Sam asked.

 

“No.” Not ever. “Not really.”

 

“I can’t count how many bars like this I’ve been in with Dean. They all start to look the same after awhile. Cheap beer, old guys, blonde waitresses.” Sam smiled into his beer. “Of course, Dean would probably have the placed scoped by now. Trying to decide whether to hustle the locals or take the waitress home or both.”

 

Nathan raised an eyebrow. “Hustle?”

 

“Pool,” Sam said quickly. “Dean’s a passable pool shark. He’s always been good with his hands. I mean, repairing cars and stuff. Kept me in new tennis shoes when we were kids.”

 

Nathan looked up from swishing the whiskey around in his glass. “You guys did this growing up?”

 

“Yeah. Me and Dean and Dad on the road hunting.”

 

“You guys must be close,” Nathan said. He couldn’t help but think of his own dad, taking his secrets to the grave, never mentioning to Nathan anything about abilities, or the Company, or any of it.

 

“Yeah. Dean practically raised me.” Sam leaned back in the chair that seemed almost too small to hold him. “What about you and Peter? You don’t seem like you grew up on the road.”

 

“What makes you say that?”

 

Sam shrugged and took a long pull of his beer.

 

Nathan knew an evasion when he saw one, but the whisky was starting to work, bringing a pleasant buzz behind Nathan’s eyes. He hadn’t had a drink in a long time (six months, fourteen days), but the dry bitterness of the whiskey felt like home, and quid pro quo didn’t seem to matter as much any more. “Peter and I weren’t that close growing up. I was away at school a lot, then in the service. Mostly our ma raised him.” Though he tried, Nathan couldn’t quite keep the venom out of his words.

 

Sam seemed to understand, and didn’t pry further. Instead, he offered up a story of one of his first hunts with Dean, when they were teenagers. Nathan wasn’t sure he entirely believed in crap like poltergeists, but Sam told the story well, and Nathan found himself laughing when the tale ended in Dean’s complete failure to score with the daughter of the family who’d been haunted.

 

Nathan countered with a story of him and Peter chasing a lead in Nevada. He vagued up a few details about the nature of their search, but the punch line went over well enough: they’d been chased out of town after Peter smiled the wrong way at the sheriff’s daughter.

 

Sam was good company. Nathan hadn’t noticed in the past few days, since he’d been preoccupied by how different it was from traveling with Peter. But Sam was smart, and funny, and Nathan had spent many evenings drinking with people—clients, friends of his parents, campaign supporters—who were much more tiresome and not nearly as handsome. And now that Nathan had a few drinks in him, it didn’t seem so difficult to admit that Sam _was_ handsome. Not pretty like Peter, but a clean, wholesome attractiveness that was suddenly making Nathan ache for something he’d never had.

 

As they talked, Sam put away three more beers, and Nathan managed to limit himself to three more whiskeys. The place had gotten crowded as the hour grew later. Nathan had just finished the story of Peter running Nathan’s Prius into the Potomac and bringing the Bentley home as a peace offering when a loud cough interrupted him. A group of girls—college age, with sparkly halter-tops and tight jeans—huddled together at the edge of the table.

 

“There’s nowhere to sit,” one of them explained with a bright smile for Sam. “Can we share your table?”

 

Sam glanced only briefly at Nathan before answering. “We were actually just leaving. You ladies are welcome to sit here.”

 

As Sam stood, one of the girls caught hold of his arm. “It’s early yet. Don’t go.”

 

“Stay and have a drink with us,” another prompted.

 

Sam opened his mouth to reply, but Nathan spoke first. “It’s okay.” He peeled three twenties from his money clip and tossed them on the table. “You stay. I’ll see you back at the motel.” He stood up to leave, but the ground lurched under him, and he had to grab the edge of the table to steady himself.

 

“Whoa. Hey, Nathan, you okay?”

 

“He’s fine,” one of the girls said, wrapping her hand around Sam’s elbow. “Sit down.”

 

Nathan waited a moment for the dizziness to pass, but it didn’t get any better. Sam reached out for him, but Nathan waved a hand dismissively. “Siddown, Sam.” He lurched away from the table, carefully placing one foot in front of the other in an effort to walk straight.

 

“Sorry ladies.” Sam was suddenly at Nathan’s side, steadying him with a hand on his elbow. Behind him, the girls gave a collective “awww” of disappointment.

 

“I can walk two damn blocks, Sam,” Nathan growled.

 

“So can I. I was ready to go anyway.”

 

“No you weren’t.” Nathan tried to brush Sam off his arm, but that proved difficult with limbs that weren’t fully operational.

 

“Let’s go,” Sam said.

 

Once they were outside, the cold night air sobered Nathan up to a degree. He was suddenly furious—with himself, for miscalculating his tolerance, and with Sam for hauling him out of the bar like some alcoholic old man. He was not about to show that, though. Instead, he shoved down his rage, packing it away inside where even alcohol couldn’t loose it. Gathering the tattered shreds of his dignity, he set off toward the hotel.

 

Sam fell into step beside him. “Feeling better?”

 

“Why didn’t you stay?” Nathan asked, deftly deflecting the inquiry. “Those girls wanted you to.”

 

“That’s not really my thing,” Sam said with a shrug.

 

Nathan couldn’t resist. “What, women?”

 

“No—I mean, that’s not the point,” Sam fumbled. “I’m not into picking up people in bars. That’s Dean’s thing.”

 

Nathan felt a wary tightening in his chest as he thought about Peter. “Sounds like a lucky guy.”

 

“Well, it used to be someone new in every town, and…” Sam’s words ground to a halt, and Nathan could almost see the light bulb go off over Sam’s head. “And his misspent youth is far behind him,” he concluded quickly. “When he’s working a case, he’s totally professional. Your brother—.”

 

Nathan cut him off. “Let’s not.”

 

They covered half a block in awkward silence before Sam asked, “You think we’ll find them tomorrow?”

 

“I have no idea.” Now that the motel was in sight, Nathan made an effort to quicken his pace, fueled by the desire to put more distance between him and Sam.

 

Sam had no trouble keeping pace. “Okay, that? Not encouraging. All this time you’ve been telling me they’re fine, yes you’re sure, stop worrying Sam, and now you have no idea? What about the bloody shirt you found in the room this morning? What aren’t you telling me?”

 

“You saw what I saw,” Nathan said as the arrived at the door. He fumbled with the room keys, trying two others on his key chain before he found the one that worked. He stumbled into the room, and Sam came right behind him, kicking the door shut as soon as they’d cleared it and swinging Nathan around to slam against it.

 

“What is wrong with you?” Sam demanded.

 

“Get off me.” Nathan tried to push Sam away, but Sam pushed back, keeping him pinned to the door. He felt a distant flutter of surprise as he realized Sam was stronger than him.

 

“We’ve lost their trail, and you don’t seem to care,” Sam said. “I just want to know why you’re being so god damn indifferent of all a sudden.”

 

“You want me to cry?”

 

“I had a vision—a crazy supernatural vision—that warned me my brother was in danger, but that didn’t seem to bother you. We find your brother’s blood—a lot of it—in a motel room, you barely blink. Same motel room, we find out our brothers…” Sam stopped short before hurrying on. “What does it take to concern you?”

 

“Get. Off. Me.” This time Nathan didn’t push. He only fixed Sam with the full force of his angry glare. Sam, to his credit, didn’t back down.

 

“You’re just like Dean. Trying to take on everything by yourself. Scared to show that you actually give a shit about something other than yourself.”

 

“You don’t know a thing about me.”

 

“Maybe not. But I know my brother. Dad demanded a lot of him, expected him to be perfect, to always do what he was told. To live up to the family name.”

 

“That’s your brother.”

 

“You’re not so different, Nathan Petrelli.”

 

Nathan’s mouth worked soundlessly for a moment before he could get out a strained, “What?”

 

“It was on the back of a picture in the glove box,” Sam said. Unable to think of a comeback that would fully express his anger, Nathan stayed silent. Sam went on. “I bet a quick Google search would tell me what you’re running from.”

 

“That’s true.” Nathan’s eyes narrowed, and inevitably, the rage he’d shoved down earlier began to ooze out, dark and insidious. “But it doesn’t matter if I know your name, Sam Winchester, because you’re nobody. Dropped out of Stanford, no family, no mark left on the world. Traveling the country with your fake IDs, your Latin dictionary, and your loving brother.”

 

“Shut up about Dean.”

 

Nathan couldn't help but go for the weak spot. "What does he think of your visions, anyway? Does he understand? Do you scare him? You never want to talk about your visions. Is he ashamed of you?”

 

“Are you ashamed of your brother?” Sam countered. “Spreading it for some _nobody_ he met a week ago?”

 

Nathan shoved Sam off of him, anger giving him strength. “Your brother hasn’t been trying too hard to find you, has he? Seems like he’s almost eager to get rid of you. Maybe if you didn’t hold on so damn tight he wouldn’t be so eager to leave.”

 

Nathan saw the punch coming too late to dodge. Sam’s big fist slammed into his jaw, sending him reeling back against the door. Nathan brought a hand up to the spot as he regained his footing. The pain bloomed bright and dull on the side of his face, but he didn’t think anything was broken. “You feel better now?”

 

Before Nathan could finish delivering his witty retort, he caught sight of Sam, turned half away from him, hands tangling limply at his sides, head hung in shame, anger spent.

 

Nathan sighed. He couldn’t keep arguing if Sam was done. In the Petrelli family, fights tended to last as long as both parties still had a voice. This seemed anticlimactic, somehow. “Sam.” Nathan took a step toward him. Now that the adrenaline was fading, the buzz in his head wasn’t so pleasant. It throbbed, beating out a pulse of guilt guilt guilt. “I shouldn’t have said any of that.” He went to put a hand on Sam’s shoulder, but stumbled and ended up with a hand wrapped around the back of Sam’s neck instead. “We’re just worried about them. It’s got both of us on edge. Forget it.”

 

Sam turned, pressing back into Nathan’s grip on his neck. His hands went slowly to Nathan’s shoulders. Instead of speaking, he leaned forward, pressing through the thick silence between them to kiss Nathan.

 

Sam’s tongue pushed against Nathan’s lips, and without thinking Nathan opened for him. Sam was gloriously wet and warm and salty and not at all like Peter. But there was nothing about it Nathan didn’t like. Sam’s grip tightened on Nathan’s shoulders, pulling their bodies closer, their hips bumping together. Maybe it was the whisky talking, but Nathan was getting hard just from this, and as Sam pressed him closer against the door, he could tell Sam was in the same state. He was warm against Nathan, solid and real.

 

Sam’s bed was only a few feet away. Nathan knew—knew from the way Sam was panting into his mouth, his hips gently rutting against him—that he could lay Sam out on that bed, strip him, explore every part of that body. Sam was strong and solid, wouldn’t need kid gloves. Sam would let Nathan in, let him take whatever he wanted.

 

Nathan grabbed Sam by the arms and pressed him back a few steps. Sam watched him, lips kiss-swollen and moist, eyes unsure but hopeful. Wanting.

 

Nathan brushed past him without a word, retreated to the bathroom, and locked the door behind him. He turned on only the cold water in the skuzzy little shower and stripped quickly. He gritted his teeth on as the elastic of his boxer shorts dragged over his cock, standing out red and hard in front of him. He grabbed the edge of the sink tightly so he would not jerk himself off to the thought of Sam writhing and bucking beneath him, Sam on his knees on the floor, Sam panting and groaning.

 

Nathan tightened his grip on the sink and forced himself to look at the mirror, looking past his disheveled hair and beginning of a scruffy beard, trying to see himself for the monster he was. He saw only his own face.

 

Climbing under the cold spray, Nathan called up the worst memories he could think of: waiting at his wife’s beside after their car crash, lying in the burn ward in agony that wouldn’t end, seeing Peter lying dead in his mother’s living room. Under the influence of these memories and the cold water, Nathan’s erection began to subside. He stayed in the shower until he was shivering and miserable, and until he was sure he’d regained his self-control.

 

When he emerged from the bathroom, Sam was a hulking lump in the dark under the duvet on the far bed. Nathan tossed his shoes on the floor and crawled into his own bed fully clothed. He lay still for a minute, trying to relax, but his heart wouldn’t stop pounding. On the other side of the room, Sam stirred.

 

“I didn’t mean to…” Sam ventured. His voice sounded brittle in the darkness.

 

 _Didn’t mean to what?_ Nathan wanted to know, but he didn’t ask. “Forget about it.”

 

Nathan held still and listened, but Sam said nothing else. After a while, Nathan heard his breathing even out and knew that Sam had fallen asleep. The peaceful sound of gentle breathing was soothing. In the darkness, he could almost believe it was Peter asleep in the next bed. But Sam wasn’t Peter. Not at all. Nathan lay awake for hours, listening to Sam’s breathing.  
\--

 

“What’s that thing do?” Peter asked from over Dean’s shoulder. Everything under the hood of the Impala looked alien and imposing.

 

Dean sighed and adjusted his grip on the wrench in his right hand. “That’s a spark plug. It… sparks.”

 

“Is that what’s broken?”

 

“Nothing’s broken,” Dean said immediately. “Just needs a little love.” He went back to adjusting something with the wrench, and Peter retreated to lounge against the fence that bordered the adjoining field.

 

Dean’s thoughts were clear and focused as he worked. _Come on baby._ Something clanked inside the engine. _There you go._

 

Peter smiled. “You really love this car.”

 

“Well. It’s about the only thing I have that’s all my own.” Dean dragged his arm across his brow, wiping away the sweat. “Hand me my beer.”

 

“I’m not your bitch,” Peter said, but Dean smirked at him, so he got up to fetch his bottle from where it rested on top of the trunk.

 

“Bitch,” Dean said when Peter handed it to him.

 

“Jerk,” Peter responded.

 

Dean nearly choked on his beer at that, but Peter just smiled innocently. “This usually Sam’s job?”

 

“You mean annoying me while I try to work on my baby?” Dean said once he’d recovered from inhaling his beer. “Actually, yeah.”

 

Peter put one knee up on the bumper, staring at the completely unfamiliar assemblage of metal and plastic. “All this time on the road together and you never taught him how to do this?”

 

“Starting to,” Dean muttered. “Your brother obviously never showed you anything about cars.”

 

“No,” Peter admitted. “If he knows anything about car repair, he never showed me. I’m a fast learner, though.”

 

“Yeah, I know,” Dean said under his breath. “Just hang tight. We’ll be back on the road in no time.”

 

_“Peter. Is that really a good place for your feet?”_

__

 

_Guiltily, Peter pulled his legs off the dashboard. “Guess not,” he muttered._

__

 

_Nathan nodded his satisfaction and returned his eyes to the road. “These GTs are supposed to be able to do over two hundred miles per hour. You think we could get her up to that?” He pressed a little on the accelerator, and the car responded with a smooth swell of power._

__

 

_“I thought you liked the Prius.” Peter was pretending to pout, but really it was nice to see Nathan so boyishly excited._

__

 

_“No, you liked the Prius,” Nathan said. “I hope you took into account that I’m going to have to do all the driving from now on.”_

__

 

_“Good,” Peter grinned. “That leaves me more time to think of ways for you to owe me favors.”_

__

 

_“Oh, I don’t owe you for this,” Nathan said. He dropped the pedal again, and the Bentley surged. “You said it was a gift. No payback required.”_

__

 

_“Well… What if I’m extra good?” Peter purred._

__

 

_Nathan tore his eyes from the road for a moment to share with Peter a smile more genuine than any he’d worn in a long time. “Keep your feet off my dashboard, and I might be feeling generous tonight.”_

 

Peter pried open a beer of his own and went back to lounging against the fence.

 

“Damn,” Dean muttered under his breath.

 

“What?”

 

“I thought that drive belt was going to hang on for another 200 miles at least.” Dean wiped his hands on his jeans before slamming the hood. “You stay here and watch the car. I’m gonna hitch into whatever that town was and pick up a part.”

 

“Wait, what part?” Peter asked, hopping off the fence.

“A new drive belt.” The image of the part, a long black circle, drifted to the front of Dean’s consciousness, and Peter memorized it.

 

“That the only part we need?”

 

“Yeah,” Dean said suspiciously.

 

“Hold on a second. I want to show you something.” Peter backed up a few steps. “Okay, now don’t worry. I’ll be back in ten minutes.” He closed his eyes and concentrated hard on the town they’d passed fifteen minutes back. When he opened, his eyes, he was standing on the sunny main drag of the town of Boswell.

 

It was the work of only a few minutes to tell the guy at Chuck’s Garage and Classic Cars what he needed. He paid with the fake credit card Dean had given him, and apparently he managed not to look too guilty, because the guy handed over the part in a paper bag and said, “Have a real nice day.” Peter returned to the street before closing his eyes and concentrating on the lonely stretch of highway where he’d left Dean.

 

“Dude, what the hell?”

Peter opened his eyes to see Dean staring at him, wrench gripped protectively in front of him. He wished that he could have stopped time and been back instantly, but that was more risk than he was willing to take, even if it would be impressive. He didn’t want to end up trapped in a post-apocalyptic future. “I got the part.” Peter held up the bag, but his self-satisfaction flagged as Dean continued to stare. “What?”

 

“Uh… What was that?”

 

“I teleported,’ Peter explained proudly. “You know, folding space and time? I just went to Boswell and got the part.”

 

“Teleported,” Dean said slowly. “Like Star Trek.”

 

“Yeah. Kinda.” He held out the bag. Dean took it and lifted out the drive belt. “At least you got the right thing.” He looked from the part to Peter and back to the part.

 

“Hey, are you… Did I do something wrong?”

 

“Uh…” Dean shook his head uncertainly. His thoughts were too jumbled to read.

 

“Dean, I didn’t think this was a big deal. Your brother has abilities, right? I… I thought it was okay.”

 

“It’s fine.” Dean turned back to the car, letting the empty paper bag flutter to the ground. _What else can he do? Holy shit, I’ve never even seen a demon do that._

 

“Dean, what I can do, it’s not evil, I promise. It’s just genetics. Borrowed genetics, even. Nothing supernatural about it.”

 

“So you said,” Dean grumbled. “Evolution, yeah. Just like, I dunno, the platypus or something.”

 

“No, really. I could give you this book, but it’s kind of technical, and really not all that well-written, to tell you the truth.” Peter realized he was rambling. “Hey, seriously. You get this freaked out with your brother’s abilities?”

 

“That’s different. Sam just has visions. He doesn’t…” Dean waved a hand vaguely toward where Peter had re-appeared. “Teleport.”

 

“But you’re not afraid of him,” Peter pointed out.

 

“No, of course not,” Dean snapped. _I’m afraid_ for _him_.

 

“Why? You think he’ll go darkside or something?”

 

“It’s none of your business, so stay out of my head.” Dean stripped the packaging off the part Peter had brought him, and turned back to the engine, tension evident in the bunched muscles of his shoulders.

 

“Sorry.” Peter watched Dean work for a few silent minutes. “Nathan was worried about the same thing, for awhile. I sort of fell in with some bad people. Or person, really. I could have done something monumentally, unforgivably bad, but Nathan stopped me. He brought me back from that.”

 

Dean looked at him as if to say, “So what,” and Peter studiously avoided reading his thoughts.

 

“I’m just saying… as long as Sam has a brother like you, he’s not really in danger.”

 

“Yeah. As long as he has me.” Dean closed the hood gently. “She’ll hold together.”

 

Peter took a few hesitant steps closer. “Hey Dean. Are we okay?”

 

“Peachy.” He opened the passenger door and gestured inside gallantly. “Get in, bitch.”  
\--

 

Sam awoke early, which was rare. His head was pounding, and it took a few minutes for memory to come drifting back. As soon as it did, his eyes snapped to the bed beside him. In the night, Nathan had flung off his covers, and lay sprawled over the bed fully clothed, still asleep.

 

Sam pulled on his clothes as quietly as he could and crept out of the room. Luckily the convenience store on the corner stocked painkillers and coffee. He bought two cups, but realized as he was adding sugar that he’d never paid attention to how Nathan liked his. He figured he’d bring it back black and risk it.

 

When Sam arrived back at the motel, Nathan was already showered, dressed, and loading their bags into the Bentley. “Uh… Good morning,” Sam said.

 

“Morning,” Nathan said shortly. He looked no worse for the wear from their little spree last night. Either he had no hangover or he was hiding it well, and either way Sam hated him a little for it.

 

“Coffee,” Sam said.

 

Nathan took it with a muttered “thanks,” but Sam noticed he studiously avoided any actual physical contact. No chance of amnesia, then. Damn.

 

“Central library’s downtown,” Nathan said. He hovered by the doorway of the room as Sam rounded up the meager belongings he’d acquired in the past week, shoving them into a borrowed duffel. “They open at ten.”

 

“Great,” said Sam. He was determined for this not to be awkward. Last night had been a mistake. A stupid, drunken mistake, and now it was time to pretend it had never happened, pretend he didn’t have ridiculously inappropriate thoughts about Nathan. Pretend he wasn’t sure that Nathan had the same kind of thoughts. “So, breakfast first?”

 

“Great.” Nathan nodded curtly. Apparently if Sam was going to pretend last night never happened, Nathan didn’t want to be outdone.

 

Despite Sam’s determination, breakfast was an uncomfortable affair. Over pancakes and bacon at a diner near the library, Sam couldn’t get out any civil words, much less make harmless small talk. He didn’t want to be the first one to admit his discomfort, so although he would much rather read a paper or even go hide in the bathroom, he just sat at the table trading glares with Nathan.

 

At 9:57, Nathan threw some money on the table and stood up. “Library,” he said. Sam couldn’t have agreed more.

 

Sam felt a moment of nostalgia for Stanford when they entered the foyer of the huge library; nowadays “research” usually meant the internet or whatever was in the collection of the tiny one-room libraries in the towns he and Dean frequented. This was the real deal.

 

“I’ll check local articles,” Nathan said. “You handle mythology.”

 

“Fine.” Sam was content to be as far away from Nathan as possible for the time being. Besides, a chance to get lost in the stacks and find something out about this demon might put him in a better mood.

 

The reference librarian was able to direct him to a few sections (yes, there was more than one floor in this library!) that might be helpful, and Sam got right to work. He took a break once to walk up to the library gift shop a buy a little blue notebook, which he took back to the stacks and filled with scribbled notes and folded, photo-copied pages that might be useful. When he finally looked at his watch, Sam was surprised to discover it was later in the day than he thought, and his stomach was growling. He went to go share his findings with Nathan.

 

Sam found him in library basement, combing through local archives on microfilm. Sam dropped a pile of books on the table beside Nathan. Instead of jumping like Dean might have done, Nathan simply glanced up from the microfilm machine and raised an eyebrow at Sam. It seemed suddenly that a few hours apart, both doing the kind of work they liked best, had erased the morning’s awkwardness. Apparently geekboys had funny ways of blowing off steam.

 

“I found her,” Sam announced.

 

Nathan cleared a stack of folders off the chair next to him so Sam could sit down. “And?” he prompted.

 

“They have a great section on Native American mythology here.” Sam patted the stack of books he’d pulled. “There’s a demon—well, not a demon, really. She was the daughter of a god, but he put her brother to death and banished her soul to hell, along with the souls of all her mortal family, her whole clan of descendents, down to the great great grandkids.”

 

“This is the kind of stuff you deal with, and you wonder why I thought you were crazy at first?” Nathan asked, shaking his head. “If she’s some ancient demon, then why have we only been picking up her pattern for the last few months?”

 

“She was probably trapped in hell and only just escaped. Somehow. I wouldn’t know anything about that,” Sam said quickly. And he certainly didn’t want to try explaining the Devil’s Gate Great Escape to Nathan.

 

“So why do you think it’s her?”

 

Sam pulled a book off the top of the stack, opened it to a page marked with a scrap of paper, and spun it around to face Nathan, pointing to an illustration. “That was the symbol of her clan, before daddy dearest wiped them out.”

 

“The crime scene photos. That’s what’s carved all over the victims.” Nathan looked from the page up to Sam and gave a satisfied nod. Sam was surprised how much of a thrill that little gesture of satisfaction gave him. “So how’s she choosing her victims?” Nathan asked.

 

“Well, according to the legend,” Sam flipped past a few pages in the book to find the passage he remembered. “Her father told her he would redeem her and resurrect her clan if she could ‘stomp out the abomination which had been her downfall.’”

 

“And which abomination is that?”

 

The word stuck in Sam’s throat. He tried again, and it slithered out of his mouth like thick poison. “Incest.”

 

Nathan stared silently back at him, and Sam felt the moment stretch between them, precarious and brittle. “Okay,” Nathan said finally. Sam’s stomach did a little flip. They couldn’t possibly be about to have this conversation. Nathan knew the demon had attacked him and Dean, and he knew Sam knew it had attacked him and Peter. Both pairs of brothers were damned by this demon’s attention, but Sam couldn’t believe that Nathan would really admit it. “So the victims—Bryce Kidman, Amy Donahue, Brandon Basden… They were committing incest?”

 

“I guess so.” Sam’s mouth was dry. They were skirting the issue dangerously. One false word could send them tumbling into oblivion. “I can’t prove it.”

 

“She takes one person and kills him, just like that god killed her brother,” Nathan said, running his hand over the illustration.

 

“Right.” Sam pulled another book quickly out of his stack, eager to move on. “There were some accounts from neighboring tribes who had a rash of mysterious murders not long after this demon’s tribe was wiped out. Same sort of thing; one body found with the marks, then the rest of their family dies. The tribes believed that the demon did some sort of a ritual to bind her victim’s blood to her. Then she doesn’t need to physically go after the rest of the family. She just collects their souls from wherever she is.”

 

“Collects their souls?”

 

Sam just nodded. It was a testament to how far they’d come in one week that Nathan just nodded his acceptance. “So it’s the shared blood that gives her access.” Nathan said. “That makes sense, in a creepy demon logic sort of way. What are the odds that Dean and Peter have this figured out?”

 

“Dean won’t go inside a library unless I drag him, so unless this research fell from the sky somehow, it’s a fair bet Dean doesn’t know who exactly she is or how she’s doing her thing.”

 

“They must have followed the case here. Which means we might be able to retrace their steps.”

 

“Except they’ve already left town, right? Let me call Dean.”

 

“No.”

 

“Nathan. Now that we know she’s targeting… We know who she’s targeting. Aren’t you even a little worried?”

 

“Should I be?” he asked evenly.

 

Sam clenched his teeth. He suddenly remembered the agony of dealing with lawyer-speak at Stanford. He was past any thought of skirting the issue with Nathan, and he forced himself to reign in words he wanted to scream. “My brother and your brother are in danger, and they don’t know what they’re up against.”

 

“You think if you were with them, you could help?” Nathan sounded as if he doubted it.

 

“Yeah, I do. I don’t understand what it’s going to take for you to do something. I’m going to find my brother. You do whatever you want.”

 

Sam pushed out of his chair and stalked out of the library, forming and discarding plans as he walked, each scheme more improbable than the next. He stopped at the parking lot, and with a self-satisfied smile pulled out the keys he’d lifted from Nathan’s jacket. Sam half expected Nathan to come running after him, but even as he pealed out, one last glance in the rear view mirror showed him only an empty parking lot.

 

The Bentley hummed under him as he drove out of town. If he felt at all guilty for stealing Nathan’s car, the feeling was dwarfed by an urgent need to find Dean, to make sure he was safe. If Dean and Peter had followed the case to another town, they might be walking into a trap.

 

 _“I do_ not _walk into traps all the time!” Dean protested._

__

 

_“No?” Sam risked a glance out the curtains to make sure none of the demons had followed them before he threw the deadbolt on the motel door and fastened the chain. “Who’s the one who’s always stuck in the hotel room doing research while Captain Jack Sparrow over there is going off half-cocked?”_

__

 

_“Half-cocked? I never—. Hey, wait.” A slow grin was spreading over Dean’s face. “You think I’m like a pirate?”_

__

 

_“No,” Sam growled._

__

 

_“Awesome.”_

__

 

_“Dean, no.” He pushed Dean backwards, sending him tumbling onto the bed, where he grabbed Dean’s hands and pinned them to his sides. “It’s not awesome sitting here worrying whether you’ve gotten yourself killed. Not any kind of awesome.”_

__

 

_“If you’d find the fun a little, Sammy—.”_

__

 

_“How did you like sitting home waiting for Dad to get back?”_

__

 

 _And_ that _wiped the grin off Dean’s face._

__

 

_“Because that’s what it feels like, Dean. Wondering if you’re going to come back at all.” He pushed off the bed and went to peek out the window again._

__

 

_“I’m a jerk,” said Dean from right behind him._

__

 

_“Yeah, I know.”_

__

 

_Dean wrapped his arms around Sam’s waist and rested his forehead against Sam’s back. “But I’m a little like an awesome pirate jerk, right?”_

__

 

_“Maybe a little.”_

 

He followed I-70 out of the city, the setting sun in his eyes, and pulled off at a gas station with a pay phone out front. It took him several tries to remember Dean’s latest number. When he was sure he finally had it, the line rang only once before going to voice mail. “Hi,” Dean’s voice said. “You’ve reached Eddie Vetter.”

 

“Damnit!” Sam slammed down the receiver.

 

“No luck?”

 

Sam whirled around to see Nathan leaning against the Bentley, arms crossed sternly, hair mussed and wild like he’d been through a tornado. “What?” Sam asked cleverly. ““How did you…? What are you doing here?”

 

Nathan's grin was smug. “I changed my mind. I think it’s time we found our brothers.”

 

“Yeah. Any bright ideas how?” Sam gestured to the phone. “Dean’s not picking up. He could be in trouble. We could try activating the GPS in his cell phone. If I can talk my way into--."

 

“Call this number.” Nathan held out a scrap of paper.

 

“You’re telling me to make a phone call?” Sam asked skeptically.

 

“This guy can help us,” Nathan said. “Trust me.” Nathan proceeded to talk him through a script so specific that Sam felt one step closer to legitimate black ops training.

 

Sam slipped some coins into the gas station’s pay phone and dialed the number with Nathan hovering at his shoulder. The whole stupid script was blown to hell when a little girl answered the phone. “Hello?”

 

“Uh, hi,” Sam faltered. “Is your Dad home?”

 

“Which one?”

 

Nathan mouthed a name. “Parkman?” Sam ventured.

 

“Hold on. MATT!”

 

There was a pause, some rustling, and then a new voice came on the line. “Yes?”

 

“Hi. My name’s Sam. I was working this sort of job, and I was told maybe you could help me locate someone.”

 

“How did you get this number?” Parkman’s voice was sharp, the kind that brooked no lies.

 

Luckily Nathan had prepared him for this part. “I work for a cargo jet company.”

 

The phrase made no sense to Sam, but apparently it held some special significance for Parkman. He chuckled. “Okay then, Sam. Who do you want to find?”

 

This part of the script had been harder, but Sam had figured out a solution. “Go to the FBI’s most wanted home page.”

 

“Are you serious?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Okay. Give me a second.” More rustling.

 

“Go to the archives, and click on Mohinder’s birthday month in the year that Ted’s wife died.”

 

“Tell Nathan you can stop speaking in code. We had Micah wireless-proof our line.”

 

“Give me that.” Nathan snatched the phone out of Sam’s hand. “Parkman, can you have Molly find Peter?” Sam hovered close to Nathan so he could hear the conversation.

 

“Hello to you too.” The guy sounded amused.

 

“Can she do it?” Nathan asked.

 

“Molly honey?" Parkman raised his voice, maybe calling into another room. "You want to do Uncle Nathan a favor?”

 

A girl's voice answered from the background. “Am I finding Peter again?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“And some most wanted guy, too?” the girl asked.

 

“Have you been eavesdropping, young lady?”

 

“Maybe." The girl's voice came closer. "Who’s the other guy?”

 

“Name's Dean Winchester,” Nathan said. “You find the picture?”

 

“Yeah. Oh, nice mug shot. Are you sure you want to find this guy?”

 

“Why?”

 

“People don’t get on the FBI’s most wanted list by rescuing kittens from trees. It says here fraud, kidnapping, and murder.”

 

Nathan raised an eyebrow at Sam. “I can explain,” Sam said.

 

“Yeah, we still want to find him,” Nathan said. “Peter too.”

 

“Molly?” Parkman said.

 

“Ohio,” the girl said from the background. “They’re both there.”

 

“Great. Ohio. And?” Nathan prompted.

 

“Geez, hold on a sec. Pushy," came the girl's voice, followed by a short pause. "Youngstown.”

 

“Where?”

 

There was a rustling and Molly's voice sounded closer, as if Parkman had handed her the phone. “They’re on a street. I think they’re in a car.”

 

“What’s the street?” Nathan pulled a pen and a scrap of paper out of his back pocket.

 

“Hold on. It’s…” Molly let out a highly undignified “eep,” then squeaked, “Market and Kenmore.” There was more rustling, and Parkman came on the line again. “Want to tell me what Peter might have been doing that would make my daughter blush like a tomato and run to her room?”

 

“That’s just Peter,” Nathan said through gritted teeth.

 

“Yeah.” Matt sounded almost apologetic. “Hey, be careful.”

 

“Yeah.” Nathan hung up the phone.

 

Sam looked at him expectantly. “Want to share with me what that was all about?”

 

“Want to share with me why your brother’s wanted for murder?” Nathan countered.

 

“I guess you can drive.” Sam tossed Nathan the keys.  



	5. Chapter 5

Thanks to the stop for Impala repairs, Dean and Peter had arrived Youngstown too late to visit the county archive. They’d made an early night of it, checking into the Sunny Valley motel. Dean hadn’t been planning anything (and certainly hadn’t been watching Peter as they’d driven, hadn’t been thinking about how sleek and tight Peter felt, how sweet he tasted). But once they were in the room, all Peter had to do was flash that crooked grin, and Dean resigned himself to not getting much sleep.

 

Bright and early the next morning, after a stop for coffee (and pancakes, hash browns, and sausage, all smothered with syrup), they were able to weasel their way into the county archive. Dean fed the secretary a line about looking for his long-lost brother, and she let them into the room with the sealed records.

 

“Jesse and Josh Mueller,” Dean said triumphantly, holding up the folder. “Removed from the home of their father, James Patterson, four years ago. Abuse and neglect, blah blah blah.” Dean jotted down the last known address from the report, and they were off.

 

Turned out James Patterson lived in a crappy part of town in a crappy little house with weathered, peeling paint and a rusty pick-up truck parked in the driveway. Dean drove around the block once, then parked the Impala a few houses down. “This look like the home of an abusive alcoholic bastard to you?” Dean asked.

 

“I guess so,” Peter said.

 

“Well, is he inside?” Dean asked. Peter looked at him blankly. “Can’t you do your mind-reading thing?”

 

“Oh,” Peter said. “I guess, yeah. I could try that.” He got a look of concentration on his face, as if he was listening very hard. “He’s in there. I mean, I’m pretty sure he’s in there. Watching soap operas.” Peter shuddered.

 

“Great,” said Dean. “Then we wait.” And that’s how the afternoon passed. And the early evening. Dean sent Peter out to get them some dinner, and a few hours later he left to get coffee, but aside from that, it was the typical mind-numbing stakeout.

 

Around nine, Peter started to get twitchy. “What if the demon’s already inside?” Peter asked.

 

“Then he wouldn’t still be alive. Or the only thoughts you could read would be ‘oh God help me I’m gonna die.’ Trust me, she hasn’t been here.”

 

“When she does show up, what’s your plan?”

 

“To make sure you don’t get shot again.”

 

“Ha ha. I just wish there was something more we could do.”

 

“Is this your first stakeout?”

 

“No,” Peter grumbled.

 

“Then shut up. We’re watching for demons.”

 

Peter was only able to sit quietly for six minutes before he pestered Dean again. “You and Sam do this a lot?”

 

“Sometimes.”

 

“How do you pass the time?”

 

“We’ve got ways.”

 

“I’ll bet.” Peter gave a long-suffering sigh.

 

_Sam squirmed in the passenger seat of the Impala, trying to find a more comfortable position. “Werewolf won’t come out for another hour at least. We’ve got time,” Sam said. His eyes had sort of a hopeful glint in them._

__

 

_Dean shook his head in mock-disappointment. “That’s not enough time for what I want to do.”_

__

 

_“An hour’s not enough time?” Sam asked._

__

 

_“Nope. I was really in the mood to lay you down and suck your brains out through your cock,” Dean said matter-of-factly. “Then finger you until you begged to get fucked. Just a thought I had.” Dean returned to tapping his fingers against the steering wheel along with the radio._

__

 

_Sam stared at him, open-mouthed. “You play dirty,” he said at last._

__

 

_Dean grinned. “Only way to play.”_

 

Dean took another sip of his coffee—it was only lukewarm by now, but it was still caffeinated. Peter took advantage of Dean’s momentary distraction to slip a hand down his leg, to the inside of his thigh. Dean managed not to dump his coffee, but it was a near thing.

 

“I heard some of that,” Peter said softly. “Be careful, or you’ll give a guy ideas.”

 

Dean sucked in breath through his teeth as Peter’s hand splayed over the crotch of Dean’s jeans. “What ideas are those?”

 

“Bad ones,” Peter purred. “We’re supposed to be working.” He returned to staring out the window at the house, but his hand stayed where it was, rubbing in gentle little circles against the denim.

 

“Yeah. Can’t get distracted,” Dean said, but he spread his legs just the tiniest bit further. He saw Peter smile out of the corner of his eye, and bit his lip as Peter began applying more pressure, pressing his palm firmly against jeans that were rapidly becoming too tight. “Must… Stay alert.”

 

“No falling asleep on the job,” Peter agreed. Deftly, he popped the button on Dean’s jeans with one hand. With the right hand, he picked up his styrofoam coffee cup and took a casual sip, while his left hand moved on to unzipping Dean’s jeans one notch at a time.

 

“Demon could get here any minute,” said Dean. He dug his fingers into the edge of his seat as Peter ran his knuckles up the length of his cock, skin separated only by the thin fabric of Dean’s boxers.

 

“I’m watching for her,” Peter said smugly, and sure enough he hadn’t once looked away from the house. “Are you?”

 

“Yeah-h,” Dean said, but his answer trailed into an embarrassing moan as Peter slipped his hand inside Dean’s boxers to squeeze him lightly.

 

“Good,” Peter said. He began to move his hand, jacking Dean slowly and leisurely and never once looking at what he was doing. Dean worked to keep from letting his hips rise up to meet Peter’s strokes. “You know, in the dark like this, it’s a wonder we can see anything.”

 

Dean schooled his voice into normalcy. “Don’t need much light just to sit around and drink coffee.” Determined to give as good as he was getting, Dean reached over, only to find Peter already rubbing himself through his jeans. “You are a bad influence,” Dean chuckled.

 

Peter responded by tightening his hand around Dean’s cock, and that was pretty effective at shutting him up. Still, Dean valiantly worked at getting Peter’s pants partially off, not stopping until his hand was wrapped around Peter’s erection, skin to skin. As Dean squeezed, he noticed Peter’s strokes becoming more erratic. He smiled, feeling smug. And he had an idea to level the playing field.

 

“You know, you’re not the first to have sex in this car,” Dean said. “Not by a long shot.”

 

“Oh yeah?”

 

“Nope. This baby’s good for getting anyone’s pants off, believe me.” He swiped one fingernail along the underside of Peter’s cock, and Peter shuddered. “You still watching for demons?”

 

Peter’s eyes snapped open, going immediately to the house. “Yeah. Yes I am.”

 

“Good. Keep watching.” Dean realized this was going to be a battle of wills to see who would get distracted first.

 

“You’ve done this before?” Peter asked. “Jacked off in the car?”

 

“Oh yeah,” Dean said immediately. Even when he was a teenager, he’d go out to the Impala for a little private time while Sammy was in the motel room doing his homework.

 

“Girls love cars,” Peter said with a little sigh. “Bet you’ve had some girl on her knees sucking you off out there against the hood.”

 

“That too,” Dean said easily. The details of the event were lost in a hundred similar encounters, but Dean remembered the feel of the bumper digging into the back of his knees, the smooth, warm metal of the hood under his fingers.

 

“Ever fucked in the backseat?” Peter asked. He sounded breathless, and Dean wondered if he was close.

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Ever… You and Sam?”

 

Dean’s thought process ground to a halt. Yeah, he knew Peter knew about that. Yeah, it seemed stupid to be shy about this when Peter’s hand was all over his dick. Still… He never talked about Sammy, not the way he’d talk about hooking up with some nobody cocktail waitress. This wasn’t about that, though… Wasn’t macho talk. He didn’t have anything to prove to Peter.

 

Peter ran his thumb gently over the head of Dean’s dick, maybe sensing his reluctance. “I got Nathan a Bentley, about three months back,” he said. “First night we had it, we drove out into the middle of nowhere Montana, under the stars, and he fucked me in the backseat.”

 

Dean swallowed hard. “Sam’s too damn tall,” he said, and he slid his hand up Peter’s cock. “But if I’m feeling generous…” He slid his index finger up over the tip, where Peter was leaking pre-come, and the slid the finger down behind Peter’s balls, pressing gently against his hole. “I’ll suck him. Let him lay there on his back and lick him, tease him…”

 

Peter’s hand tightened around Dean’s cock; Dean had almost forgotten it was there. His hips jerked on their own, and he started to stroke Peter faster, determined not to be the first to finish.

 

“I’ll eat him until he’s absolutely begging me, then I’ll take him all the way down, deep, let him fuck my throat ‘till he comes.”

 

Peter bucked, his hand closing over Dean’s to milk himself through the orgasm, splattering come on his shirt and on both their hands. As soon as he had his breath back, Peter lunged for Dean, wrapping his mouth around the head of Dean’s cock and stroking with his other hand. It was only the work of a few seconds before Dean was shooting into Peter’s mouth with a satisfied groan.

 

Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Peter sat back up, returning his eyes immediately to Patterson’s house as he buttoned up his pants.

 

Dean let himself bask in the afterglow for a few more seconds before putting his clothes to rights. He felt sated, relaxed and, strangely, not that freaked out about letting Peter jerk him off to a description of sex with Sam.

 

“More coffee,” Peter said, breaking through Dean’s happy haze. “If I’d known the stakeout was going to be this exhausting, I’d have brought some Red Bull.”

 

“I’ll go,” said Dean. A walk would wake him up. “Just… seriously, keep an eye out, okay?”

 

“I will.”

 

Dean walked the three blocks to the convenience store and got two coffees, a bag of pork rinds, Pringles, and a Playboy, just in case they got to wrap up early tonight. He was halfway back before he realized he was humming to himself. He forced himself to shut up; no use letting Peter feel too pleased with himself. When he made it to Patterson’s block, he got an on-edge feeling that something might be wrong. Halfway up the block, he saw a dark shape lying across the sidewalk next to the Impala. He dropped the coffee and the bag from the store and ran.

 

Peter lay unconscious a few feet from the car. Dean looked around wildly, expecting the demon to jump out at any moment, but there was no movement anywhere. The whole block was quiet except for the normal sounds of city traffic in the distance. “Peter!” Dean crouched next to him and tried to shake him awake. Nothing.

 

“Damn it, Peter.” He leaned closer to listen for breathing and felt Peter’s warm breath against his cheek. Still alive, at least.

 

Then Peter’s eyes snapped open, and he sat up with a start, almost headbutting Dean.

 

“Jesus, dude!” Dean said. “Can’t I leave you alone for five minutes?”

 

“Dean!” Peter grabbed Dean’s shoulders. His eyes were wide and wild. “We have to get out of here. We have to go.”

 

“What are you talking about? Why the hell are you lying on the sidewalk?”

 

Peter stumbled to his feet, and Dean followed, holding him tightly by the arm in case he decided to collapse again. “Vision. I had a vision. I just—I got out of the car because I thought I heard… And then this vision came, just knocked me out.” He pressed a hand to his head, as if in pain. “We have to get going.”

 

“Going where?”

 

“Sam and Nathan… There’s going to be an accident.”

 

Dean only had to look at Peter to see there was no question in his mind; what he’d seen in that vision was going to come true, sure as Sammy’s visions. “Get in the car,” Dean said.  
\--

 

Sam felt a little like he and Nathan were playing chicken with their silence. A million questions clamored for attention in Sam's head: what was the deal with Nathan's aversion to technology, why had he let Sam call those people, and just who was Nathan, anyway? Of course, as soon as he opened that door, he was sure Nathan would respond with questions of his own, and Sam wasn't sure he was prepared to fully explain the whole most-wanted thing. As the road rolled away under them, Sam's curiosity finally won out over his reticence. “Who were those people?”

 

“Friends.”

 

Sam hadn't really expected a straight answer, but that was hardly informative. “And how did they know where to find Dean?”

 

“Molly’s a very gifted little girl.”

 

“Gifted...” Sam wondered if there might be another younger generation of psychics out there that the yellow-eyed demon had been preparing. That was not a happy thought. But the yellow-eyed demon was gone, and anyway, this Molly girl wasn’t the first weird thing connected with Nathan. “Why wouldn’t you let me use a telephone until now? What did they mean by 'wireless?'”

 

“It’s a person. Sort of." Nathan didn't seem too sure. "She can monitor electronic communications.”

 

“A person who can intercept e-mails and phone calls." Sam stared at him. "You know you’re sounding like a crazy mountain man unabomber guy right now.”

 

“You want to get out?” Nathan asked. “I can pull over.”

 

“What exactly do you and Peter do?”

 

“Why is your brother wanted for murder?”

 

Sam had been preparing for this since Parkman brought it up. “It was a mistake.” True, and as good an explanation as any.

 

“But has he killed anyone?”

 

Sam couldn't help getting a little defensive. Dean may have done lots of things that weren't acceptable in polite society, but he'd done them all for good reasons, and Sam wouldn't hear him criticized for it. “Has your brother?”

 

“That’s different.”

 

Sam paused, processing that. "So Peter has killed people."

 

"And so had Dean."

 

"What of it? Are you trying to say you're perfectly innocent?"

 

"No. I'm not making excuses for myself. You've never believed I was some knight in shining armor, anyway. But you told me I could count on Dean to keep my brother safe."

 

"That's the truth. And considering the kind of trouble you and your brother attract, you should be glad Dean's armed and dangerous."

 

"Great. We're all bad-asses. Thanks for that revelatory insight. I just was hoping for a little more reassurance."

 

"I thought you said Peter could take care of himself."

 

"He can."

 

"And from what we saw yesterday, I'd say Dean has him in hand just fine."

 

"Or vice versa."

 

Sam fumed. Arguing with a lawyer was maddening. “Why do you always want the last word?”

 

“Why do you?”

 

"Fuck this. Let me out of the car. I'm finding Dean, and I don't need your help to do it." He reached for the door handle, and Nathan quickly hit the child locks.

 

"Sam, if you get us killed when we're two hours from finding Peter--."

 

"You don’t have all the damn answers, Nathan!” Sam snapped. “If you could stop--."

 

Sam was interrupted by a tremendous crash, screeching tires, breaking glass, and a jarring impact that sent Sam slamming forward into the dashboard. Then he knew no more.  
\--

 

Dean had the gas pedal to the floor, pushing the Impala as hard as she would go down dark county highways.

 

Hunched in the passenger seat, Peter gripped a ballpoint pen and had a paper napkin salvaged from the Impala floor pressed against the dashboard. He ignored the scenery rushing by and tried to concentrate on Nathan and let the pen move as it would.

 

“What the hell are you doing?” Dean snapped, jerking Peter back to full awareness. “This isn’t the time for Pictionary, Peter.”

 

“I’m sketching.” Peter looked up from the napkin to the road and back again. “This is the place. Turn here,” he said. Dean gave him a funny look. “Turn!”

 

Dean swerved the Impala onto a side road: blacktop that stretched in a straight line out past the reach of the headlights. But there, maybe a hundred yards away, two yellow headlights illuminated part of the ditch at the side of the road. As they got closer, Peter recognized the Bentley, its front end smashed against a tree.

 

“Jesus,” said Dean. He jerked the car onto the shoulder and slammed on the breaks, just barely throwing it into park before jumping out of the car.

 

“Sam. Sammy!” Dean ran to the car and dropped to his knees by the passenger side.

 

Peter followed more slowly, training his eyes on the empty driver’s seat. He looked for Nathan—opened his mind and searched—but he found nothing. He didn’t feel the absolute emptiness of looking for someone who wasn’t there to be found. It was more like static: a low buzz of interference that showed him nothing.

 

“Damn it.” Peter glanced over to see Dean pulling a tall man from the wreckage of the Bentley. That must be Sam.

 

“Sammy?” Dean had succeeded in dragging his brother out onto the grass, and how he was cupping Sam’s pale face in his hands, trying to wake him. Peter knelt beside Dean on the grass, and reached past him to run and hand over Sam’s head.

 

Dean barely bit back a snarl at the intrusion, but Peter ignored him. His finger sank into a soft spot on Sam’s skull, just above the hairline, and his hand came away bloody. “He hit his head,” Peter whispered.

 

Dean wiped blood off Sam’s face. “It’s not that bad. He’s just unconscious. He’ll wake up in a second.” _Please, Sammy. Please wake up._

 

“Is he…?” Peter reached for Sam’s neck to check his pulse, but Dean slapped his hand away.

 

“He’s fine. Just give him a minute. Sammy?” _Don’t leave me, Sam. I can’t do this without you._

 

Peter stood and backed away. His brother was missing, and Dean’s brother was bleeding into his brain. He couldn’t let this happen. Dean looked about ready to break.

 

_“Not everything is under your control, Peter. Don’t do this.”_

__

 

_“Why not, Nathan? I can fly, bend space and time. I can heal from any wound. What can’t I do?”_

__

 

_“You are not God. You can’t save everyone.”_

__

 

_“But I can try.” He jumped to the window._

__

 

_“Peter--.” “If you keep pushing yourself like this, you’re going to burn out. You have to leave something for yourself.” Unspoken, Peter heard, You have to leave something for me._

__

 

_Peter stepped back into the room. “Okay. Okay, Nathan. I’ll stay.”_

 

“Sammy. Please wake up.”

 

Peter tore his eyes away from the scene and ran to the car. The crash had warped the frame, so it took Peter three tries to pry open the trunk. Inside, the supplies were a complete jumble, but under a coil of rope Peter spotted what he was looking for: a small black hard case. With a whispered prayer, Peter opened it. All the syringes inside were intact, each filled with a bright red, thick liquid.

 

“Sam. Wake up. Please, man.”

 

Peter gently lifted one syringe from the case and hurried back, kneeling on the ground across from Dean. Sam stretched between them, long and limp.

 

“He’s not waking up,” Dean croaked.

 

“Here. This’ll help.” Peter took Sam’s left arm and ran a thumb over the inside of his elbow until he found a likely vein. He slid the needle in and emptied the syringe.

 

“What the hell was that?” Dean asked, suddenly suspicious, his eyes wild in the bright glow of the headlights.

 

“It’ll help him,” Peter said softly. “It’s a present from a friend.”

 

“You a doctor now?”

 

“A nurse, actually.”

 

Sam groaned, and two sets of eyes snapped to his face.

 

“Sammy?” Dean smoothed Sam’s unruly hair out of eyes that were fluttering open.

 

“Hey,” Sam muttered. “Nathan?”

 

“No, it’s Dean, moron.” Dean managed to sound affronted and relieved in equal measure.

 

“Hey Dean.” Sam struggled to sit up, but Dean held him down with a hand on his shoulder.

 

“Take it easy, Sammy. You’ve got a wicked concussion or something.” _Thought I’d lost you. Again._

 

“He’ll be fine,” Peter said softly. “He can probably get up.”

 

“Okay, come on.” Dean helped Sam to his feet, letting his brother lean on him. “What was that stuff?” He spoke past Sam’s shoulder, pitching his question quietly to Peter.

 

Peter shook his head. “Doesn’t matter.” He wandered away to have another look at the car, and to give Sam and Dean a moment of privacy.  
\---

 

The pain in Sam’s head was fading rapidly into the distance. In fact, his whole body felt light and tingly.

 

“You sure you’re okay?” Dean asked.

 

“Yeah.” Sam straightened up to stand on his own two feet. “Yeah, I’m good.”

 

Dean spared a glance for the ruined Bentley before running a hand across Sam’s forehead. “Dude, you gotta quit getting in car wrecks. Seriously.”

 

“Hey. I wasn’t driving this time.”

 

Dean’s thumb brushed away some of the blood from Sam’s temple. Then he grabbed Sam by the back of the head and crushed their lips together, kissing like he wanted to devour Sam.

 

“Hey!” Sam pulled away and looked nervously at the other guy—Peter, obviously—who was studiously examining what was left of the steering wheel.

 

“What?” Dean asked.

 

“He’ll see,” Sam said, wondering if Dean had recently had a head injury as well.

 

“Doesn’t matter.”

 

Dean leaned in to kiss him again, but Sam dodged him. “Maybe not to you, but I don’t really want to have to explain this to Peter.”

 

“Won’t have to. He knows.” Dean moved to kiss him again, and this time Sam was too shocked to dodge. After a few seconds, Dean must have noticed his complete lack of response, because he pulled away. “That shut you up.”

 

“Why would you tell someone—?” Sam asked, unable to wrap his mind around this, especially coming from Dean, who never told anyone anything if he could help it.

 

“I didn’t tell him, Sam. He just knew. Listen, it’s fine. You’re okay.” Dean pulled Sam to him for another kiss, and this time Sam went willingly.

 

_“How’d you get so touchy-feely all of a sudden?” Sam asked, but he wrapped his arms around Dean anyway to return the hug._

__

 

_“Shut up.” Dean pulled his hands away. “I missed you is all. I’m glad you’re okay.”_

__

 

_“Ha. Missed me? I’m sure you weren’t lonely. Probably kept a lot of local girls from being lonely, too.”_

__

 

_Dean’s answering smile was a bit late, enough for Sam to see the lie in it. “Damn straight.” He punched Sam in the shoulder. “So show me what you brought us.”_

 

When Sam broke the kiss this time, he caught sight of Peter searching by the car, pointedly keeping his back turned. “Nathan,” Sam whispered. “Dean, we have to find Nathan.”

 

Peter whirled around to look at Sam. He couldn’t possibly have heard that, but Sam gave him a nod anyway, and Peter went over to them.

 

"So, you must be--." Sam said.

 

"Oh, yeah. Sam, Peter. Peter, Sam." Dean gestured between them.

 

"Hey," Peter muttered.

 

Sam just lifted his chin in greeting. “Find anything?” he asked.

 

Peter shook his head. “No. What did you see? What do you remember?”

 

“Just the crash. Nathan and I were talking, then there was this horrible loud sound.”

 

“What kind of sound?” Peter asked.

 

“Screeching metal. Glass breaking,” Sam said. He wasn’t sure he understood the question. “Sounded kind of like a car running into a tree. You ever been in a car crash?”

 

“Not personally. What else?”

 

Sam threw a do-you-believe-this-guy look at Dean, but he just shrugged. “Nothing else,” Sam said. “That was it. I don’t remember anything else until I woke up.”

 

Peter turned to Dean. “You think it was the demon?”

 

“Must have been.”

 

Sam heard the easy camaraderie in their speech, knew the signs of Dean’s affection, the way he added someone to his confidence like an alpha dog adding to his hunting pack.

 

“We’ve gotta go after him,” Peter said.

 

“We will.” Dean put a hand on Peter’s shoulder, and Sam didn’t miss the friendly, reassuring squeeze. “We’ll find him.”

 

“Dean.” They both turned to look at Sam. “It’s not that simple. We did some research in Baltimore.”

 

“You were in Baltimore?” Dean asked.

“Yeah, looking for you,” Sam said accusingly. “You didn’t make it very easy.”

 

Dean and Peter exchanged an unreadable look. “What’d the research say?” Dean asked.

 

“The demon is some kind of a fallen goddess. She goes after very specific targets. The victims… They’re always…” Sam trailed off. _I can’t say it. Not in front of Peter._

 

“Go on, say it,” Peter said challengingly. “We all know, so say it.”

 

“Look, it doesn’t matter why she took him,” Dean broke in, and put his arms out between them. “We’ll get him back, end of discussion.”

 

“There’s something else,” Sam broke in. “The sacrifice. It does the sacrifice to get access to the bloodline. That’s why she doesn’t have to go after the rest of the family personally, like a reaper would. She does the ritual and then she can just take their souls from wherever she it.”

 

Dean swore under his breath. “Like some sorta crazy remote detonator.”

 

“She can do this to anyone in the bloodline?” Peter asked.

 

“Up and down the family tree,” Sam said. “You, too.”

 

“No no no,” Peter said, suddenly frantic. “I’m not worried about me! Nathan has children.”

 

Dean paled. “Kids?”

 

“His boys, Simon and Monty, and…” Peter gripped the sleeve of Dean’s jacket, hard. He looked close to panic. “We can’t let that happen.”

 

“We won’t. We just have to find them fast.” Dean pulled something out of his pocket. It took Sam a moment to recognize it.

 

“A lodestone?” he said incredulously. “Does it actually work?”

 

“Oh yeah.” Dean petted it fondly.

 

“There’s blood on the steering wheel,” Peter said. “It must be Nathan’s.”

 

“That’s all we need.”  
\--

 

“Nathan. Naaaathan.”

 

Nathan didn’t recognize that voice. He struggled to open his eyes, but they wouldn’t quite cooperate. His head throbbed, and his mouth tasted like copper.

 

“Are you awake, darling?” A warm hand snaked down his chest, followed by a sharp line of pain.

 

Nathan’s eyes flew open with a gasp. Above him stood the demon, dark eyes and lovely dark hair, smiling and holding an ornate silver knife, already wet with blood.

 

“There. I knew you’d want to get up and play. I was so glad I could find you and littlest Winchester. Dark spots of anger, all seeped in love. It made pretty colors to follow.”

 

“Where’s…?” Nathan’s throat was dry, and the words scraped like sandpaper.

 

“Darling Sammy? I didn’t need him for this, so I just left him,” she explained. “But don’t worry, sweetest. He’ll get his. After what the two of you did to my brother, I want to make sure he dies slowly.”

 

“The demon at Greenmount.”

 

“You were there too? Oh good. That makes this part so much more satisfying. You should really be more careful about sending people’s brothers to hell.”

 

“Look who’s talking.”

 

The demon slapped Nathan, and he tasted blood. When he dragged his eyes back to the demon, she was smiling again.

 

“Nathan, I only wanted to tell you that I’m so happy to have you. I would have settled for your brother—same ending either way—but I always prefer to take the guilty party. Well, guiltier party.”

 

Nathan tried to relax as the demon ran her knife along his side. She could gut him right now with just a flick of her wrist. Nathan wondered if this was a part of the ritual; if he died too early, would she still be able to hurt his family?

 

“You were the older one,” she said, pressing the flat part of the blade into Nathan’s side. “You knew better. You should have stopped it.”

 

“You were the oldest,” Nathan guessed. “You got your brother killed.”

 

“Do not speak of my brother.” With a quick movement of her arm, she cut a shallow line across Nathan’s belly. He closed his eyes, trying to breathe through the pain until he felt her hand around his throat. “Your brother will not be spared. Nor your parents, nor your children.”

 

_Nathan’s heart ached as he saw Peter leading Simon and Monty through the woods out behind Heidi’s latest house. Peter’s voice carried on the wind. “It looks like the enemy’s got us surrounded,” he was saying. He ducked behind a tree, and Simon and Monty followed. “I’ll distract them, but you guys have to go save the princess.” Simon and Monty nodded earnestly, and set off creeping down a trail._

__

 

_He heard the soft sound of rustling dead leaves behind him, and turned to see Heidi approaching. She stood silent beside him for a few minutes, watching Peter play the part of the valiant dying comrade, then the bad guy. “He’s great with them,” Heidi said finally. Her tone was even, but Nathan could read the bitterness there._

__

 

_“He’s family.”_

__

 

_Heidi shook her head. “And you made your choice a long time ago, Nathan.” She raised her voice. “Boys! Come have some supper!” She turned back to Nathan. “This is the last time. When you leave tonight, you and Peter can’t come back. Promise me.”_

__

 

_“Heidi, they’re my boys, too.”_

__

 

_“And if you love them, you won’t hurt them the way you hurt me.”_

__

 

_Down the trail, voices were approaching. Two sets of legs were running to keep up with their Uncle Peter. Heidi’s blue eyes held Nathan trapped and wouldn’t let him look away. “I promise,” he said._

 

“Don’t,” Nathan choked out, involuntary as his heart beat.

 

Her hand loosened fractionally around his throat. “Does he beg?”

 

“Please. Peter. The kids. Don’t…”

 

“Of course you ask first for your brother’s life.” She pulled her hand away and returned to running her knife gently across Nathan’s skin. “You know, I begged my father for my brother’s life. He refused, of course. Then I begged for my tribe, for I had many children, and they in their turn had multiplied, so that my descendants were many.”

 

The demon dragged the sharp tip of her knife oh-so-casually down Nathan’s left side, opening up a narrow wound as she spoke. “One great-grandchild in particular was in my mind especially as I begged for their lives. A crawling little boy with dark eyes who was forever trying to escape his mother’s watch. I begged my father not to take him. I thought, if I could save one…” She ran her thumb along the line she’d just cut, tearing the skin open a little wider. Nathan gasped for breath as his vision whited out momentarily.

 

“You know what my father told me?” When Nathan didn’t answer, the demon shook him by the throat until he looked at her again. “Do you know what he said?”

 

“No,” Nathan rasped.

 

“He told me that because I had asked for my brother’s life first, because I had been selfish and wicked, he would not spare even one.” She let go of his throat, letting her hand trail down his bare chest. “So no, Nathan. Your death will give me all of them. And it’s no more than you deserve for what you’ve done.” She slid the flat side of the knife gently across Nathan’s cheek. “I must prepare. You think on your sins.”

 

Nathan closed his eyes as she moved away. Peter would find him, must find him. Sam would get in touch with Peter, somehow, and they’d get here in time. He trusted them.  



	6. Chapter 6

Dean scrubbed a hand through his hair and resisted the urge to shove a Metallica tape in the Impala’s cassette player. Metallica might drown out Sam and Peter’s argument, but it probably wouldn’t do much for Dean’s headache.

 

“It doesn’t make sense,” Sam was saying from the passenger seat. “The demon we wasted in Baltimore was her brother, and he wasn’t interested in Nathan.”

 

“Are you saying the demon didn’t take him?” Peter asked. Dean recognized the petulant edge in his voice. “That it was something else?”

 

“No, I’m saying that I don’t understand why. If she didn’t want him before--.”

 

“That was a different demon,” Peter said quickly. You never actually ran into her, into _the_ demon, did you?”

 

“No, but--.”

 

“And you said the one that you met is dead now, so it doesn’t matter who he’s after.”

 

“Listen, Peter. We did some _research._ ” Sam made the word sound end-all important, and Dean narrowly avoided rolling his eyes. “We know they’ve been working as a team; they’re family, or were, anyway. I don’t want us walking into a trap. It sounds like you guys have been one step behind this demon since we saw it in Albany.”

 

“You think we should just leave him?” Peter leaned forward from the back, one hand gripping the back of Dean’s seat.

 

“No! We’re going to get him back. We just have to walk in there prepared.”

 

“There no time! I can take care of the demon, I just need to find her.”

 

“Oh right, mighty hunter.” Sam crossed his arms over his chest. “You walk in there guns blazing, you might get Nathan killed.”

 

“If we sit here and do nothing, she’ll kill him anyway.”

 

“Hey! Shut it, both of you,” Dean broke in. “You’re not helping anything.” He threw a stern glare over at Sam, and then threw another glare in the rearview mirror. _Peter,_ he thought, concentrating hard on the words. _Chill out and let me handle Sam._ For a moment, he felt foolish. Then Peter gave a curt nod and settled back in his seat. _Okay then._ “Sammy, you know anything about the demon that can help us track her down?”

 

Sam shook his head. “We found out a lot about her history, but nothing that would help us track her. Maybe Bobby might have an idea of how—Ah!” He broke off, clutching his hand to his head.

 

“Sam?” Dean flicked his eyes away from the road. “Talk to me.”

 

With a pained whimper, Sam buried his head in his hands.

 

“What’s wrong? Is it that head wound?” Peter asked. “It shouldn’t be acting up."

 

Dean slammed on the brakes and guided the Impala onto the shoulder. “It’s a vision.”

 

“Visions that look like seizures?”

 

“Don’t ask.” Dean threw the Impala into park and reached over to the passenger side to grab Sam by the shoulder. “Sammy?”

 

_“I thought I was done with these,” Sam muttered._

__

 

_Dean held Sam closer, not caring that water from the dirty shower tiles was soaking through his jeans. “Hey,” he prompted gently. “It over?”_

__

 

_Sam rubbed at the goose egg on the back of his head, souvenir of his fall. "I guess so."_

__

 

_“You’re turning into an old man. Falling in the shower. Next thing I know you’ll be chasing kids off the lawn with my shotgun.” It was a lame attempt at humor, Dean knew, but he wanted to hear Sam laugh, wanted to wipe away the sound of Sam crying out in fear and pain that had brought him bursting into the bathroom of this run-down motel room._

__

 

_Sam managed only a weak smile. Dean pulled him to his feet and pushed wet hair out of his eyes. “Why is this happening again?” Sam asked._

__

 

_“It’s not your fault Sammy."_

__

 

_"Then whose fault is it?"_

__

 

_Dean didn't have a snappy answer for that._

 

“It’s not a cemetery,” Sam ground out through clenched teeth. His eyes were squeezed shut. Dean kept a grip on his shoulder so Sam wouldn’t jerk forward and hit his head on the dashboard.

 

“Dark, high ceilings. There’s boxes. Stacks of boxes. Nathan!”

 

“Nathan?” Peter broke in. “Where is he?”

 

“Shhh.” Dean waved a hand at Peter.

 

“She’s not… No,” Sam moaned. Dean didn’t want to know what he was seeing that was so upsetting, but Peter gave a small whimper, though whether from general fear or because his mind-reading was picking up some of Sam’s vision, he didn’t care to know.

 

Dean tightened his grip on his brother’s arm. “Sammy, it’s okay. I gotcha.”

 

“There’s machinery. It’s all blue. And a logo. Like some lines, and—ah!” Sam jerked back in his chair, and his eyes snapped open, darting wildly around until they focused on Dean.

 

“Hey.” Dean said, tightening his grip on Sam. “You back with us?”

 

“Yeah. She’s definitely got him. We need to hurry.”

 

“She can’t have gone far. Not like she can fly or anything. Any idea where this place is that you saw?”

 

“There was a logo. I’ll bet we can find that.” Sam grabbed a napkin from the glove box and a pen from the pocket of his hoodie and began to draw: an upside-down pyramid with three wavy lines above it.

 

“It’s ice cream,” Dean said suddenly.

 

“What?” Sam and Peter asked together.

 

“Handel’s. Ice cream. That’s their logo.”

 

“How do you…?” Sam started. “Never mind.”

 

“They’ve got a factory in Cleveland,” Dean said. And he thanked his lucky stars that he’d never underestimated the importance of random knowledge about junk food. “You think the demon went that far?”

 

“Not a lot of choice, if she’s in a hurry,” Sam mused. “Address?”

 

“I’ll call 411.” Dean punched the number into his phone. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Peter lean forward from the backseat to put a hand on Sam's shoulder.

 

“You have visions often?” Peter asked.

 

“Um…” Sam looked quickly at Dean, but Dean pretended to be absorbed in the phone call. Let the psychic boys fight it out amongst themselves.

 

“Don’t worry,” Peter said. “I know what that’s like. I mean, not exactly, but close enough.”

 

“What?” Sam sounded utterly confused.

 

Dean avoided eye contact, and breathed a sigh of relief when the 411 operator answered. “Cleveland. Handel’s Ice Cream. The distribution center, please.” Dean snapped his fingers, and Sam handed him the pen and the napkin on which he’d drawn the logo. Dean jotted down an address. “Thanks. Got it.”

 

Sam looked at the napkin. “Dean, even if we floor it all the way…”

 

He was right. They weren’t sure how much of head start the demon had. Anything could happen in the hour it would take to drive to Cleveland. Dean started the Impala. “We have to try.”

 

“Get out of the car,” Peter said.

 

“We don’t have time,” Dean protested. “We’ve gotta go.”

 

“If we drive, we’ll get there too late. I know what to do.” The special emphasis behind the words permeated Dean’s stubbornness. _Oh right. Those ability things._ “Get out of the car.”

 

“Come on, Sammy. Grab your party dress.” Dean killed the engine and climbed out of the Impala. Peter shoved something he’d been holding—a black plastic case—into Dean’s duffel, and tossed the bag to Dean as he climbed out of the backseat. Sam joined them on the shoulder.

 

“The place you saw in your vision,” Peter said to Sam. “Can you think about what you saw? Concentrate on it?”

 

“Why?”

 

“Just do it, Sam,” Dean ordered.

 

With a roll of his eyes, Sam closed his eyes; his brow furrowed in concentration.

 

“Okay," Peter said after a moment. "Got it. This might be dangerous.” He grabbed the duffel bag out of Dean’s hands. “You should stay here.”

 

“First off, no,” Dean said shortly, and snatched back his bag. “You may be a bad-ass, but you don’t know about demons.”

 

“Can we get going? We’re wasting time,” Sam protested.

 

“See? Your brother agrees. Get in the car and meet me there,” Peter said.

 

Dean shook his head emphatically. “Not a chance."

 

“Why are we still standing here?” Sam asked.

 

“Peter?” Dean didn’t take his eyes off him. He was pretty sure he knew which of the two of them was more stubborn.

 

“Fine. When we end up in a post-apocalyptic hell, don’t say I didn’t tell you so,” Peter grumbled.

 

“Fine,” Dean snapped.

 

“What?” Sam asked.

 

Peter grabbed Dean’s arm with one hand and Sam’s arm with the other, and closed his eyes. “Hold on.”

 

Dean felt an unpleasant little lurch in his stomach, and when he opened his eyes, it was darker. They were no longer on the side of the road. They were inside some warehouse: high ceilings, the distant whir of machinery, and a faint smell of sugar. “Wow,” said Dean.

 

“What did you do?” Sam pulled away from them.

 

“Shhh,” Peter hissed. “I don’t know how close we are.”

 

“What did you do?” Sam repeated. He grabbed Peter by the front of his shirt. “Christos.”

 

Dean put a firm hand on Sam’s shoulder. “Sam, chill. He’s okay.”

 

“You know that for sure?” Sam challenged.

 

“Sam—.”

 

“Just because he doesn’t flinch means he’s on the good side?”

 

“I can explain--.” Peter began, his voice low and urgent.

 

“You of all people should know better, Dean. There are all kinds of creatures who can take human shape.”

 

“I’m not a creature,” Peter hissed. “Please be quiet.”

 

“Sam, he’s not evil. Would you let it go?”

 

Sam pulled his arm out of Dean’s grip. “How could you trust him? That, what just happened there—that was not natural. Do you even know where he brought us?”

 

“Sam, look.” Dean touched one of the boxes stacked around them. It was stamped with an upside-down pyramid and three wavy lines. “We’re here.”

 

Sam looked suspiciously from the box to Peter before grabbing him and pushing him against a beam. “How did you do that? What are you?”

 

“We do not have time for this,” Peter said, pushing back. “You wanted to come, so help me find Nathan or I’ll do it myself.”

 

“I’m not letting you out of my sight,” Sam said, pointing a warning finger.

 

“How you gonna stop me?”

 

“Hey, okay.” Dean jumped between them and pushed them apart. “You,” he said to Sam. “Stop being a bitch.” He turned to Peter. “And you. Stop being…” He searched for the right word. “A bitch.” _God save me from any more little brothers._ “Sam, I’m telling you he’s not evil. Trust me on this. Peter, we’re here to help, so simmer down. Christ. Never wished I was an only child.”

 

They glared at each other for a moment more. Peter broke first, nodding his agreement, and then Sam nodded too.

 

Dean pulled two cans of spray paint from his bag and passed them to Sam. “Give us a trap by all the exits. Peter, go with him and cover his back.”

 

“And you’ll be…?” Sam asked.

 

“Doing recon. We need to know where your brother is and where the demon is. And apparently you two can’t shut the hell up for ten seconds, so that makes me the sneakiest.”

 

“I’m going with you,” Peter said immediately.

 

“No.” _I need you to look after Sammy._

 

Peter swallowed hard. “Fine.”

 

Sam looked warily between Dean and Peter, then said, “We’ll see you back here in ten.”

\--

 

This wasn’t the worst pain Nathan had ever been in. Months spent lying in a burn unit had warped his perception of acceptable levels of agony. What worried him now was all the blood he was losing. It oozed from a score of shallow wounds. The demon chanted as she cut, running the flat of her blade through the blood. Nathan didn’t recognize her words; they weren’t any language he’d heard.

 

He was too weak to protest any more. Even if she untied him right now, he didn’t think he had the strength to stand. His limbs felt very heavy. He’d lost blood before, but he never remembered feeling so damn weak from it. The pulses of pain that wracked him were coming slower now, and felt somehow far away, like the shadows that lurked beyond the reach of the bare light bulb that hung above him.

 

Nathan’s eyes drifted open, then closed. Time seemed to have a dreamy quality: he wasn’t sure if he’d been lying here for hours or days. Once, when he opened his eyes, he saw a man’s face, at the edge of the circle of light, peeking out from behind a piece of machinery. Nathan blinked, but the face didn’t go away. The man’s eyes were fixed cautiously on the demon as she bent over Nathan, slicing into his flesh. The man didn’t look familiar, but his eyes weren’t black, weren’t demon’s eyes, so that made him a friend in Nathan’s book.

 

Nathan was just trying to work up the strength to call to the man when there came a tremendous clatter from the dark recesses of the warehouse. The demon’s head snapped up to look. She turned back to Nathan with a grin and laid one finger against his lips. “Shh. I’ll be right back, sweetest. We won’t let those Winchesters ruin our fun.”

 

The demon strode off into the darkness. Nathan closed his eyes and concentrated on breathing, on not slipping into unconsciousness.

 

_Nathan felt very light. The pain in his chest was a faraway thing: two bright burning spots lodged somewhere inside him, radiating a dull heat. His focus was on Peter. Laying in the circle of Peter’s arms, he felt strangely safe. Around them, people were shouting and pushing. He thought he heard Parkman shouting something, but Peter’s voice cut through it all. “Hold on, Nathan. I’m not going to lose you again.”_

 

Through the haze, Nathan became away of a hand on his shoulder, a voice whispering in his ear. “Hey. Nathan. You’re Nathan, right?”

 

With effort, he was able to drag his eyes open. Hovering above him was the face he’s seen lurking out in the warehouse. “Hey, yeah, that’s good. I’m Dean. I’m gonna get you out of here.”

\--

 

Peter watched Sam intently as he began to paint a complex design from memory, spraying each line carefully onto the floor. “Demons can’t get out if they walk into one of these things?” he asked.

 

“That’s the idea.” _Et anima, e tuum._

 

“And how do we kill her?”

 

“We don’t kill her,” Sam said sharply, pausing in his work to glare briefly at Peter. “There’s still a woman in that body. If we’re lucky we can exorcise her, and there’s a chance the host will live.” _If not, there’s always the Colt._

 

“What about the Colt?”

 

Sam looked up sharply. “Did Dean tell you about that?”

 

“Not really. Only to complain that you had it.” That was marginally true, at least. Dean had certainly thought about the Colt, even if he hadn’t said anything to Peter directly. “What does it do?”

 

“It kills everything,” Sam explained as he painted. “Demons, vampires. Everything.” _Slutty emo boys who sleep with my brother._

 

Peter dropped his flashlight.

 

 _Unbelievable._ “Hey, _Pete._ It’s kind of hard to paint in the dark.”

 

He struggled to wrap his mind around the fact that Sam _knew._ Dean wouldn’t have said anything, probably. That meant he’d figured it out on his own somehow. And if Sam knew, that meant Nathan probably knew, too. “Don’t call me Pete,” he muttered. Peter felt around the dirty factory floor.

 

“Stop dropping the flashlight.”

 

“Whatever you say, _Sammy._ ” Peter’s hand encountered plastic. He grabbed the flashlight and shook it. It flickered on. Peter whirled back around to shine the light at Sam, and his shoulder hit a shelf. Dozens of metal mixing bowls, stacked precariously, wobbled uncertainly for a moment, and then tumbled to the floor in a series of spectacular crashes.

 

 _Unfuckingbelievable._ Sam jumped up from the half-finished Devil’s Trap. “She heard that for sure.” Sam grabbed Peter’s arm and pulled him away. “Come on. We have to hide.”

 

“No, don’t hide.” The demon slid out of the shadows in front of them.

 

Sam and Peter froze like frightened rabbits.

 

“Sam, Peter. I’m glad you came.”

 

Peter’s eyes flicked to the silver knife at her side. A drop of dark red blood fell silently and spattered on the floor. Nathan’s blood. She couldn’t have killed him already. He would know.

 

“Peter. I have to say I’m a little surprised to see you. After what you did for Dean, you look remarkably healthy.”

 

“It’s a gift.”

 

 _What he did for Dean?_ Sam’s attention flicked briefly to Peter.

 

“And Sam. You’ve been a naughty boy. You sent my brother away.”

 

“And I’ll do the same to you.”

 

“Sam, you’re not a good man. You deserve to be punished.”

 

“So do you.” Peter saw Sam’s hand move toward his hip, slowly, unobtrusively. Going for the Colt.

 

“I think it’s time you came off your high horse, don’t you?” The demon threw her head back, and suddenly there was a rush of wind and a sound like a thousand hurricanes. Black smoke poured out of the demon’s mouth. It swirled around Sam, but seemed unable to get too close. Sam screamed something at Peter, but Peter couldn’t hear over the roar. The column of smoke turned in mid air, as if it was a living thing, and rushed toward him.  
\--

 

“No!” Sam watched in horror as the demon forced itself into Peter’s body. He dropped the can of spray paint—no time for that now—and paused with his hand on the Colt. He couldn’t shoot Peter. Nathan would never forgive him. He had to find a way to exorcise the demon, and fast.

 

As the demon stood still, examining its new host, Sam ran. He needed to buy some time. He needed Dean.

 

“Sam, what have you brought me?” It was Peter’s voice echoing from behind him, but it held a cruel edge. “This is no magic.”

 

Sam darted around a pile of boxes as silently as he could, and stopped short at the sight of Dean half-supporting, half-dragging a semi-conscious Nathan. Sam ran to help Dean, throwing himself under Nathan’s other arm to take some of his weight. He looked terrible: pale and bloody, eyes fluttering open and closed again as he fought to stay conscious.

 

“Where’s the demon?” Dean asked, pitching his voice low, below the whir of the machinery.

 

“She got him,” Sam said grimly.

 

_“Damnit Sam!” Dean kicked the now-unmoving body the demon had inhabited, and stuffed the Colt back in the waistband of his pants._

__

 

_“It just happened. I’ve never seen a demon jump out of a host like that.” Sam came to stand next to Dean, staring down at the body as if it might provide some revelation._

__

 

_“That was too close. If you hadn’t gotten ahold of your charm, you’d be walking around as some demon’s meat puppet,” Dean grumbled. “Again.”_

__

 

_“Yeah, well I did have my charm.”_

__

 

_“Barely. Butterfingers.”_

__

 

_“Why are you mad?” Sam turned wide, searching eyes on Dean._

__

 

_“Because I don’t want you possessed. Is that so hard to understand? I don’t want…” Dean trailed off. “I don’t want to deal with that.”_

__

 

_“I’ve got the charm Bobby gave me. What more do you want, a tattoo?”_

__

 

_Dean’s eyes lit up like a Christmas tree._

__

 

_“Dean, I was kidding.”_

 

“I can hear you!” Peter’s voice echoed through the building. “I can hear your hearts pounding like little rabbits. Saaaaam!”

 

“How many of the devil’s traps did you finish?”

 

“None.”

 

“Shit.”

 

“Deeeean! Is that you, Dean?”

 

“Come on. Let’s buy some time.” Dean dragged Nathan further into the warehouse. Sam caught sight of a large metal door and steered them toward it. “In here.” He wrenched open the door to the freezer.

 

Dean followed, dragging Nathan along. “You still have the paint?”

 

Sam patted his jacket, looking for the second can of spray paint, and felt his heart sink when his pockets came up empty. He must have dropped it in his rush to get away. “Gone.”

 

Dean lowered Nathan to the ground, leaning him against the wall. “Tell me you still have the Colt.”

 

“Yeah, but Dean, we can’t…” He glanced to Nathan, who had his eyes squeezed shut. Sam couldn’t tell if he was unconscious, but he lowered his voice anyway. “You don’t get it. It’s in Peter.”

 

“In him? Like _in_ him in him?” Dean’s whispered words made a cloud of breath in the cold air.

 

“She just went out of her host, and she tried to get into me, but…” He placed a hand on his chest, over the tattoo that protected him from possession. “She went after him instead.”

 

Dean looked absolutely stricken—more upset than Sam had ever seen him over collateral damage.

 

“No no no. That’s bad. We gotta get it out.” Dean’s voice was strangely hoarse. “Gotta exorcise it.” He stopped suddenly. “Sammy, when she… Did he do anything?”

 

“What are you talking about?”

 

“Peter—he can do stuff. Like the psychic kids. Does that mean when she’s in him, the demon can—?”

 

The heavy metal door rattled in its frame. “Come on out, boys!”

 

Dean pulled Nathan to his feet and they retreated further into the vast freezer, turning randomly down rows and aisles of stacked cartons.

 

“Nathan. Hey, stay with us, man.” Sam put a hand to Nathan’s face, pale and drawn with pain. “Tell us about Peter. What’s this stuff he can do?”

 

Dean rummaged through Sam’s bag, coming up with a container of rock salt.

 

“Peter’s all right,” Nathan muttered. “He’s a good person. It all evens out in the end.”

 

“Yeah, that’s extra useful.” Dean poured a line of salt across the aisle.

 

“Focus, Nathan,” Sam said. “What is he capable of?”

 

“Just leave him alone.” Nathan shoved Sam’s hands away weakly. “He’s helped more people than he’s hurt.”

 

“He’s fading fast,” Dean said softly. “Salt will slow the demon down, but we’re gonna have to find a way out of here. Wait a second.” His face lit up. “Wait, this is perfect. Give me the Colt.” He held out his hand.

 

“Are you insane?” Sam whispered. “We can’t shoot him, Dean.”

 

“Trust me on this one. It’ll be okay. Give me the gun.”

 

“No! We’ll make a run for it.” Sam went to help Nathan to his feet, and Dean pulled him away.

 

“We’re locked in a freezer, Sammy. There isn’t exactly a back door.”

 

“Then we’ll stall. I’ll distract him and you find something to draw a devil’s trap.”

 

“You are not going toe-to-toe with a demon who also has Peter’s freaky powers,” Dean snapped. “Not gonna happen. Give me the damn gun.”

 

“Where’s Peter?” Nathan asked again.

 

A tremendous clang echoed through the freezer as something heavy ran into the door. “Boys! Dean! Saaaaaaaaamy!”

 

“We’re leaving.” Sam moved to pick Nathan up, but Dean stopped him with a hand to his chest.

 

“This is the best chance we’ve had to waste this demon.”

 

“Are you deaf? It’s _in_ Peter!”

 

“Yeah, and if we let it walk out of here, a lot more people are going to die. Gun. Now.”

 

“No!” Sam glanced cautiously at Nathan, whose eyes were screwed shut in pain, and lowered his voice. “How would you feel if someone wasted me? You wouldn’t shoot me when I was possessed; you can’t shoot Peter.”

 

“Sam, this is different. Seriously.”

 

There was another tremendous clang. The demon’s voice—Peter’s voice—was louder now. He must have broken through the door. “Deeean. I hear you.”

 

“We have to go right now,” Sam said. “Come on.”

 

Dean dropped to a crouch next to Nathan, and Sam thought for a moment that he’d come to his senses and was going to help him get Nathan out of here. Instead, Dean snapped his fingers in front of Nathan’s face. “Hey, you still with us?”

 

Sam knelt on Nathan’s other side, his knees protesting as they encountered ice-cold concrete, and pressed two fingers to his neck. A pulse beat there, but it wasn’t strong. “Dean, he can’t answer you.”

 

“Hey! Nathan! Your brother Peter—what happens if he gets shot?”

 

“Dean, what the hell?”

 

“Hey! Dude!” Dean waved his arms in front of Nathan’s face. “Sammy here is gonna shoot your brother. That okay with you?”

 

“Dean!” He stuffed the Colt further into the waistband of his jeans, almost guiltily.

 

Nathan’s eyes drifted open, and it took him a moment to focus on Dean. “Not in the head,” he muttered in a white puff of breath. “Just be careful.”

 

“What?” Sam looked at Nathan in confusion.

 

“There’s your answer, Sammy. Get the Colt.”

 

“Dean, he’s out of his mind. Leave him alone.”

 

“Give me the gun. I’ll do it.” Dean reached for the gun, and Sam dodged.

 

“Have you gone crazy?” Sam had no idea why Dean suddenly held Peter’s life so cheaply, but he knew for certain that Nathan would never forgive him if he hurt Peter. There had to be another way.

 

Dean put on his most patient tone. “I do not have time to explain this right now, but I promise I’m not crazy.” He held out his hand for the gun.

 

“Hey there, Winchesters.”

 

Peter appeared in the cold light of the freezer aisle, black-eyed and grinning. He gripped the demon’s silver knife in one hand. “Salt. That’s so quaint.” He examined his hands thoughtfully. “Well… I may not be able to cross a line of salt, but then I don’t really need to. Not in this body.”

 

Peter flung his empty hand out, and Sam found himself flying back into a pile of boxes. “Guess my control isn’t very good. You’ll have to forgive me—this is all so new.” Sam’s limbs wouldn’t cooperate for a moment, but as soon as he did move a little, he gasped in pain. Some ribs were bruised, or possibly broken. He gritted his teeth.

 

“Now you see why I’d much rather have Peter than you, don’t you, Dean? He’s so… amazing. And you…” As Sam struggled to right himself , he heard Dean grunt in pain. “…Are nothing. As usual. You couldn’t protect Peter before. And now look at what you’ve done. You can’t protect anyone: not your family, and not anyone else’s.” Sam dragged himself upright but was immediately slapped down by an invisible force. “Wait your turn, your highness.”

 

Sam craned his neck for a glimpse of the demon. Peter was holding Dean by the throat. Dean’s hands clawed desperately at his throat, and his feet dangled in the salt line, scattering it across the floor. Sam began to feel around for the Colt.

 

“You know, I’m always the most disappointed in the older brothers or sisters. Ruining their family’s lives with their perversion.” He hoisted Dean higher, ignoring the wet choking sounds as Dean struggled to breathe. “Your sin is the worst one, Dean Winchester.” Peter raised the demon’s knife, already dripping with Nathan’s blood, and drew it in a shallow line down Dean’s chest. Dean’s scream was choked off as Peter squeezed his throat. “Your whole life, you tried to drag your brother down to hell with you.”

 

Finally Sam’s hand closed on the cold metal of the gun. Keeping it down, out of the demon’s line of sight, he looked for an opening. Peter was still holding Dean up with one hand, as if he weighed nothing. They were too close. Maybe Dean could make a shot like that, but Sam had never been as much of a natural marksman.

 

“Peter?”

Sam turned to see Nathan reaching a hand out to the demon, his eyes wide and glassy. The demon smiled, a crooked grin that might not have been handsome on any other face but Peter’s. He dropped Dean, who fell in an unmoving heap on the floor. Sam pried his eyes away; he had to take care of the demon before he could help Dean.

 

“Hey, Nathan.” The demon took one slow step toward where Nathan lay. “I didn’t forget about you. We’re not finished, brother.”

 

Sam took aim and squeezed the trigger. Peter’s head snapped around to face the sound faster than any human should have been able to move. He brought his hands up as if he wanted to stop the bullet in mid-air, but wasn’t sure how.

 

The round caught Peter in the heart. For a moment nothing happened. The demon’s black eyes stared disbelieving at the wound. Then Peter started to scream: an unearthly, animal sound. Light flashed under his skin. There was a crackle, and a smell of sulfur and smoke, and Peter dropped like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

 

“Dean.” He rushed to his brother’s side, but Dean was already sputtering and coughing. Sam pulled him more or less upright as he checked broken bones. The cut from the demon’s knife was shallow, and steaming slightly in the cold air.

 

“You okay?” was the first thing out of Dean’s mouth.

 

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. How’s your neck?”

 

“Peter.” Dean’s eyes slid past Sam to where Nathan cradled his brother’s body in his arms.  
\--

 

Anything. The Colt killed anything. That’s what Sam had said. Vampires, demons, werewolves. Humans. Anything. And Nathan had seen Peter heal from some horrific wounds, but it made him panic every time, not knowing for sure whether Peter would wake up again. This was worse. Peter’s dead eyes stared up at him. They were milky white instead of black now, and there was no spark of life in them.

 

“Peter?” He smoothed Peter’s damp hair back from his forehead. “Wake up. Come on.”

 

Suddenly Dean appeared, kneeling on Peter’s other side. “He can heal, right? He’ll heal?”

 

So Dean already knew. That would save some explaining, and Nathan just wouldn’t think about how Dean had found out. “Peter. Can you hear me?”

 

“I’m sorry.” Sam was standing a few feet away, the Colt hanging at his side. “I had to.”

 

“He’s gonna wake up any second now,” Dean said.

 

Nathan tried again. “Peter?”

 

_“Peter!” He couldn’t see Peter’s face; the wind was whipping his hair around wildly as they flew. Then he coughed, convulsing in Nathan’s arms as he returned to life._

__

 

 _“You’re okay, Peter. I’ve got you.”_ I don’t want to do this anymore. I can’t keep losing him. __

__

 

_“I’m fine, Nathan. Let me go and we’ll fly together.” He squirmed in Nathan’s arms. Nathan tightened his grip._

__

 

_“No. This stops, Pete.”_

__

 

_Peter went still in Nathan’s arms, but Nathan had no illusions that the fight was over. “Can we be on the ground for this conversation?”_

__

 

_Nathan wheeled and plummeted toward earth, pulling up at the last minute to perform the graceful landing he’d been practicing, and dumping Peter unceremoniously in the dusty road._

__

 

_“What is wrong with you?” Peter snapped as he brushed himself off._

__

 

_“We can’t keep doing this. Running around playing X-Men. It’s too dangerous.”_

__

 

_“Nathan, we have these gifts for a reason,” Peter said. He said the words tiredly, as he’d repeated this to Nathan so many times before. “We’re supposed to—.”_

__

 

 _“Help people, right? Fine, only…”_ We’re a team. Just the two of us. __

__

 

_“So what do you want?”_

__

 

_“To disappear. We can help people on our own, and leave all this baggage behind. No Company, no list, no virus. Just us.”_

__

 

_“Is that what you want?” Peter sounded unconvinced._

__

 

 _“Peter, you’re going to live forever.”_ Can’t you spend at least a little time with me? __

__

 

_Peter’s voice was little more than a whisper. “This is really what you want?”_

__

 

_Nathan didn’t say anything. Let Peter read his mind if he wanted; he knew what he was asking._

__

 

_“Okay. Then we’ll do it your way. Just the two of us. Right after this mission.”_

 

“We need to get the bullet out.” Dean pulled a knife from his boot to cut off Peter’s shirt.

 

“You’re going to cut him up? Dean, he’s gone.” Sam’s voice broke on the last word.

 

“He should wake up. Something’s wrong,” Nathan said.

 

“We have to get the bullet out, right? It’s like Highlander.”

 

Nathan nodded mutely, and he didn’t protest when Dean pulled Peter onto his side. The fingers Dean ran over Peter’s back were proprietary, comfortable with Peter’s body. Nathan looked away. “No exit wound,” Dean reported.

 

“Dean, Nathan, he’s gone.” Sam said.

 

“He’s not gone, Sammy.” Nathan caught himself, but he didn’t miss the sharp look Dean threw his way. “Sam. He’s not.”

 

“Run get the duffel, Sam. There’s a first aid kit,” Dean said.

 

Nathan swayed, his vision darkening at the edges.

 

“Hey, Nathan.” Dean was watching him intently. “Don’t you die on us, either.”

 

“Not until Peter’s okay.” He struggled to his feet, and his vision got dimmer. “I’ll get the others. They can help.” He stumbled forward, hands out in front of him to feel the way.

 

“Nathan?” That was Sam’s voice.

 

He was swimming in darkness.  
\--

 

Dean knelt beside Nathan to feel for a pulse. The blood was still pumping, but barely. “Nathan!” Sam was back, distracted from his mission by Nathan’s collapse, no doubt. He pushed Dean aside. “Hey, I’ve got you,” Sam said, easing Nathan over onto his back. “You’ll be fine.”

 

Dean hesitated only a moment before running back to Peter. He laid his hands on Peter’s chest, resting just below the bullet hole the Colt had drilled. “You’ll be fine,” Dean whispered, because he had to believe it. He couldn’t have let Sam _really_ kill Peter.

 

“Sam! Get me the duffel!”

 

Sam was shaking Nathan by the shoulders. “Nathan?”

 

“Sammy! Go get it!”

 

Sam lurched to his feet and stumbled over to where the duffel had landed in all the confusion, wedged against a shelf.

 

Dean turned his attention back to Peter. The wound wasn’t gushing blood anymore. That meant the heart wasn’t beating. He heard the duffel hit the ground and turned to see Sam kneeling back beside Nathan. “We’ve gotta keep him from bleeding out,” Sam said. “He’s probably going into shock.”

 

“Sam! Toss me the damn first aid kit!”

 

Sam was busy pressing gauze against the worst of Nathan’s wounds. “We were arguing. Just before the crash. It was so stupid to be fighting. God I’m such an ass.”

 

“Yeah you are.” Dean scrambled across the floor to catch the edge of the duffel strap and pull it over to him. He grabbed bandages and bottles willy-nilly out of the plastic first aid kit until his fingers closed around the cold metal of the tweezers.

 

“Dean, I think he stopped breathing.”

 

When Dean spared a glance, Sam was bent over Nathan, listening intently.

 

Dean couldn’t think about that right now. He grabbed a spare flashlight from the duffel, shook it into illumination, and held it at his shoulder so he had at least a chance of seeing what he was doing. The tweezers went in easily, right through the path of the bullet, but they were hard to hold onto; Dean’s hand was slippery with blood, quickly drying to tacky on his arm in the cold air. Peter’s eyes stared lifelessly at the ceiling while Dean pushed the tweezers further in.

 

Behind him, he heard Sam begin CPR, counting the compressions. “One-and two-and three-and…”

 

“Come on,” Dean muttered. The tweezers hit something hard—harder than muscle, at any rate, and Dean prodded harder, trying to get a grip on the bullet. It was surprisingly easy when the subject wasn’t writhing in pain. The bullet came out with a wet squelch.

 

“Nine-and ten-and…”

 

“Come on, Peter,” Dean whispered. He wasn’t moving. “Do your freaky magic thing.”

 

“Dean, he’s gone,” Sam snapped. “Come help me.”

 

Dean’s mind raced back to the night at the graveyard when he’d seen Peter get shot. There had to be something Dean was missing. Sometimes supernatural stuff needed a trigger, like chanting, or some sort of material component. Dean rubbed a hand over Peter’s forehead, smudging the blood spattered there. “Peter, please man.”

 

_Sam kept not opening his eyes. Dean hadn’t looked away, had barely blinked since he and Bobby had laid Sam on the bed. He didn’t want to miss the moment that Sam’s eyes shot open, that he gasped for air and sat up and asked for coffee. He was going to wake up any minute._

__

 

_Dean was trying not to think about last night, about the hole punched in Sam’s back by that bastard’s knife… He certainly wasn’t thinking about Sam bleeding out right there in his arms. Those things didn’t happen to the Winchesters. The Winchesters always came out all right, somehow. Dean just had to be patient._

__

 

_An owl called out in the woods, and Dean had turned to look before he realized what he was doing. Immediately, his eyes snapped back to Sam. Didn’t he look different, somehow? Dean slid to his knees next to the bed and shook Sam by the arm. “Sammy? Hey… Sam?”_

__

 

_Floorboards creaked behind him. Dean tensed up, but he didn’t look away from Sam. Let ghost or demon come for him; it didn’t matter now._

__

 

_“Who you talking to, Dean?” Bobby. Of course Bobby was here. Dean had forgotten._

__

 

_“Nobody.” Dean climbed back into his chair to resume his vigil._

 

“Dean!” Sam was calling him, still trying to save Nathan. Save him, so when he woke up Dean would have to tell him he’d let his little brother die. “Grab your phone. We have to call 911.”

 

Mechanically, Dean reached for his phone, and that’s when he heard Peter cough.

 

“Peter?”

 

Peter’s eyes were open, and no longer glassy and vacant, or opaque black, but their usual warm brown.

 

“Jesus, you scared me.” Dean gathered Peter in his arms and pulled him into a hug.

 

“You did the right thing,” Peter rasped, wrapping his arms around Dean. “I’m sorry she hurt you. I tried to stop her, but I couldn’t do anything. I didn’t know—.”

 

“Hey, it’s okay,” Dean soothed. He’d done his job; he’d kept his family safe. That was all that mattered.

 

Dean was distracted by a sharp intake of breath behind him, and then Sam counting again. “One-and two-and…”

 

“Nathan.” Peter pulled away, his eyes going immediately to the still form on the floor next to Sam. He untangled himself from Dean and scrambled across the floor to kneel beside Sam.

 

“He’s not breathing,” Sam said.

 

“How long?”

 

“Two minutes, maybe.”

 

“Back off,” Peter said. Sam tensed, narrowing his eyes at Peter. “Just for a second.”

 

Sam pulled his hands away warily. Peter placed his hands on Nathan’s bare chest. There was a brief, bright flash of blue light, and Nathan’s body arched.

 

“Holy—!” Dean had seen that glow before: the first night he’d met Peter, and again when they’d faced the demon in that warehouse in Baltimore.

 

“Stop!” Sam grabbed Peter and hauled him off Nathan. “Get away from him.”

 

“Sam, calm down.” Dean started toward Sam, but he didn’t move fast enough.

 

Sam pushed Peter onto the ground and planted a knee on his back. “He just tried to kill Nathan. He’s still possessed, Dean.”

 

“We have to restart his heart,” Peter gasped. “Like a defibrillator.”

 

Sam paused, letting up a little so that Peter could breathe, and looked to Dean.

 

“You have a better idea?” Dean asked.  
\--

 

As soon as Sam pulled his knee off Peter’s back, Peter jumped up and returned to Nathan’s side. “Come on,” he muttered. He put his hands back in position and concentrated. Another electrical arc tore through Nathan’s body. Peter listened hard, lowering his head to Nathan’s chest. No change. No heartbeat.

 

Sam shouldered him aside and started compressions again.

 

“Dean,” Peter said suddenly. “Your bag—there was a little black case.”

 

_“It’s a present. Just take it,” Claire shoved a small black case into his hand and then stuck her mittened hands back in her coat pockets._

__

 

_“Can I open it now, or do I have to wait for Christmas?”_

__

 

_“Open it, dork.”_

__

 

_Peter snapped the plastic clasps and opened the case. Inside were six glass syringes packed in foam. Each syringe held a dark red liquid. “Is this…?”_

__

 

_“It’s mine. If you’re ever somewhere far away.” She sounded sad. Peter wondered briefly how she’d found out he and Nathan were planning to leave before deciding it didn’t matter. “You won’t need it, but…”_

__

 

_“Someone else might.”_

__

 

_“Please be safe.” She kissed him on the cheek, and he ignored the wetness on her face. “Both of you.”_

 

Dean grabbed the duffel and soon returned with the case. He flipped open the top, and Peter could see the remaining syringes. All three were broken, oozing thick red liquid into the lining of the case.

 

“Is this blood?” Dean asked.

 

Peter reached a hand out to touch, and drew it back when the shattered edge of one of the broken syringes cut his finger. “They’re broken…”

 

“Peter, this is what you used on Sam, right? What is it?”

 

“It heals. It’s from the source… From the person who gave me the power in the first place. They can’t all be broken.” He grabbed the case from Dean and pawed through it, heedless of the broken glass. There had to be something he could use.

 

“This isn’t natural,” Sam said suddenly.

 

“Dude, he’s not a demon,” Dean shouted. Then he turned to Peter. “Or a vampire, right?”

 

“No, I mean Nathan’s not hurt that badly,” Sam explained, and Peter turned to listen. “Whatever’s killing him, it’s magic.”

 

“You mean the demon was working some kind of mojo on him?” Dean asked. He knelt next to Sam, who pointed at the cuts that marred Nathan’s skin.

 

“Yeah. The symbol has some sort of power. It’s connected to his lifeforce somehow.”

 

“So… Can you fix it?” Dean asked.

 

“The book… There’s a cleansing ritual, like a protective charm thing her tribe used. If I could read the charm, that might break the symbol’s hold.”

 

“What do you need?” Peter asked.

 

“My notes from the library. They were in a backpack. In Nathan’s car.”

 

“I’ll go get them. Keep his blood pumping.”

 

Peter concentrated on the Bentley, twisted metal, the big oak tree it was wrapped around, and then he was gone.  
\--

 

“Fourteen-and fifteen...” Sam tilted Nathan’s head back and breathed into his mouth, past lips that were already too cold.

 

“Sammy.” Sam looked up to see Dean standing across from him, watching intently. “You know what you’re doing?”

 

Sam furrowed his brow in confusion. “You taught me CPR, so if I don’t, it’s your own damn fault.”

 

“The charm, Sam,” Dean said tightly.

 

“We’ve gotta try something.”

 

“But are you sure you’re up for this? You were unconscious with major head trauma like less than an hour ago. You sure you should be messing with dark magic right now?”

 

“It doesn’t matter. This isn’t just some guy, Dean, some random civilian.” Sam sucked in a breath, surprised at the panicked edge in his voice.

 

Dean nodded like he actually understood, and maybe he did. “Yeah, okay.”

 

Sam went back to chest compressions, and Dean shut up.

 

“This is all I could find.” Peter was back: no bang, no puff of smoke, just there. He had a backpack slung over one shoulder, and his arms were piled with a mess of books and papers that had been in the backseat. “The cops were already there.”

 

“Would you?” Sam asked, nodding to his brother. Dean knelt down next to Sam and took over CPR while Sam began pulling papers out of Peter’s arms. “It’s a blue notebook.”

 

Peter dumped the jumble on top of a nearby crate and yanked open the zipper on the backpack. Bits of notes, police records, and newspaper clippings swam in Sam’s eyes as he rooted through the stack: the ruined remains of Nathan’s careful filing.

 

“This?” Peter held up a blue spiral notebook crammed with loose papers and held closed with a rubber band.

 

“Yes.” Sam snatched it out of Peter’s hand and pulled the notebook open. Yesterday was a blur: reading and taking notes, so he couldn’t remember where exactly he’d copied the charm—there. Ten lines of verse, phonetically copied from the original: the lost language of the demon’s extinct tribe, finished with an English invocation. Sam raced back to Nathan’s side and gently pushed Dean out of the way.

 

Sam could sense Peter hovering behind him. He stared down at the words of the charm, trying to remember if the book had held any clues about how this ritual had been performed, and coming up blank.

 

“Sammy?” Dean prompted.

 

“We need a focus object for the ritual,” he said finally. That, at least, he remembered. “Something that represents what we’re trying to protect him from. Preferably something of hers, or something she touched.”

 

“Knife,” Dean and Peter said in unison. They spread out, searching.

 

Sam went back to studying the words, forming them silently.

 

“Here we go.” Dean returned, holding the silver knife gingerly by the handle.

 

Sam took it. The metal was heavy in his hand, and so cold it almost hurt to hold it. The blade was wet with blood: Nathan’s blood, and Dean’s. He gripped the knife tightly in his left hand, and placed his right hand on Nathan’s belly, where the thin red lines of blood formed a nexus. He began to read.

 

The words were hard and unfamiliar and felt like grit in his mouth. Under Sam’s hand, the cuts began to glow an angry red.

 

“Is it supposed to do that?” Peter asked.

 

“I have no idea.” Dean backed up a step, and Peter followed.

 

Sam ignored them, keeping his entire concentration focused on the words. As he spoke, the knife grew warm in his hand. He kept chanting. A shrill whistle began to sound in his ears. Dean and Peter didn’t seem to hear it.

 

Sam had reached the end of the text, and he read the English translation of the final invocation loud and clear: “The power of our tribe hold you and keep you safe from harm.” The knife in Sam’s hand grew too hot to hold, and he dropped it with a muffled curse. Under his other hand, Nathan’s cuts glowed a brilliant white for an instant, and then the light faded to nothing, taking the cuts with it.

 

“Nathan?” Sam shook him gently. Still nothing. “Shock him again.”

 

Peter rushed forward to place his hands on Nathan’s chest. Sam backed off. Blue lighting flared once more under Peter’s hands, and then Nathan was coughing, gasping for air.

 

Sam started forward, but Dean stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. He gave a slight shake of his head and pointed to Peter, who was babbling a strange mix of endearments and admonishments to rest.

 

“Don’t spoil the reunion,” Dean whispered.  
\--

 

Nathan didn’t remember much of the drive to the motel. He remembered the cabbie first looking scared, and then getting that dazed look people got after they’d heard Peter’s voice in their head telling them they wouldn’t remember any of this.

 

He found himself on a bed somehow, with Peter hovering over him. “I’m fine,” he muttered. “What’d you do, anyway?”

 

“It was Sam,” Peter replied darkly. “Try to rest.”

 

Nathan closed his eyes, but he could hear the others talking in the corner.

 

“I’m not leaving the Impala out there overnight.” That must be Dean.

 

“I’ll go with. We have to go back to the Bentley anyway, do some cleanup.” Good old Peter. Taking care of the family business. Wouldn’t want the cops getting ahold of any of their stuff.

 

“I’ll stay.” Sam. That was Sam. A silence followed that pronouncement, but the next thing he knew, Nathan heard the door close. The bed dipped as Sam came to sit beside him.

 

“You asleep?” Sam whispered.

 

Nathan shook his head, and let his eyes drift open. “Are you alright?”

 

“I’m fine. How are you feeling?”

 

“Better than I was an hour ago. Peter says you saved me.” Nathan saw a change come over Sam’s face, turning somehow proud and suspicious at once.

 

“He said that?”

 

“Guess all your research paid off.”

 

“Yeah. Hey…” Sam edged a little closer on the bed. “I’m sorry I said those things in the car. Before we crashed.”

 

“Don’t apologize,” Nathan said. “If you apologize, I have to, and I don’t have the energy right now.”

 

“Okay.” The silence stretched between them, and Nathan was still feeling too hazy to dredge up something intelligent to say. Finally, Sam stood. “They just went to get the car.” He pushed aside one of the curtains, which was a wretched lavender color. “Shouldn’t be gone long.”

 

“Sam.” He turned back immediately. “That’s just Peter. He’s not going to take your brother away.” Nathan realized that this might be one of those conversations that only seemed like a good idea immediately following a near-death experience. Still, judging from the way Sam froze helplessly at the words, it was something Sam needed to hear.

 

“I’m not…” Sam fumbled. “I don’t…”

 

“He knows he can’t keep Dean. So stop worrying.” Nathan closed his eyes and turned on his side, giving Sam the privacy to process that information how he would.

 

Nathan wasn’t sure if he slept or not, but he wasn’t aware of anything else until the door opened and closed again. Sam and Dean were mumbling together in the corner, and Peter came to curl up at Nathan’s back.

 

“It’s your turn to buy me a car,” Peter grumbled.

 

“I love you,” Nathan said.

 

Peter wrapped his arms around Nathan’s waist. In the room’s other bed, Nathan could hear the sounds to two bodies settling. “I love you, too. Go back to sleep.”  
\--

 

Peter jerked awake when he heard the door close. A quick glance over at the other bed confirmed what he suspected; Sam and Dean were making a break for it. Carefully, he eased out of bed, leaving Nathan asleep, and phased through the door into the parking lot. Dean had just tossed his bag into the back seat of the Impala, and Sam was already settled in shotgun. Peter was stopped for a moment by how at home he looked there.

 

“Peter?” Dean stopped with his hand on the driver’s side door.

 

Peter came a few steps closer. “So this is it?”

 

“Job’s over,” Dean said. He fixed his eyes on the Impala’s hood, studiously avoiding looking at Peter. “Let’s not make a big thing of it.”

 

Peter didn’t try to read Dean’s mind. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know what Dean was thinking at this moment.

 

“See you around,” Peter said, and managed a brief half-smile.

 

Dean nodded and slid into the Impala. The purr of the Impala as it rolled out of the parking lot echoed in Peter’s chest and made it ache.  



	7. Epilogue

_  
**Six Weeks Later**   
_

 

Dean strode into the Evanston Township morgue and slapped his FBI badge down on the counter. The nurse looked up from chewing her pen and raised an eyebrow in interest. “Can I help you?” she asked, and looked up him and down with an appraising eye.

 

“Special Agent Tom Baldwin.” Dean flashed her a confident smile. “I need to take a look at that John Doe from Wilmette.”

 

“Sure.” The nurse grabbed a clipboard and beckoned to Dean to follow her down the hallway. “Your partner’s already inside.”

 

Dean almost tripped over his own feet. “Uh,” he said cleverly. Sure, he had faith in his ability to bullshit, but he’d rather avoid explaining himself to a real FBI agent.

 

Before he could spit out a plausible excuse, the door at the end of the hallway burst open. Another nurse was pointing out something on a clipboard to a man in a black suit. “Ah, there he is,” said the nurse at Dean’s side.

 

The fed looked up; his eyes flashed surprise for a moment before retreating into neutrality. “Nice of you to join us,” he said. Dean hesitated, torn between running and standing his ground. As they drew closer, Dean finally recognized the man in the suit: Nathan.

 

“I was just finishing up here,” Nathan said. “Why don’t I fill you in on our way to the car.” He turned back to the nurse. “Thanks for your help, ma’am.” Yes, the man was quick on his feet.

 

_“Dean!”_

__

 

_“What?”_

__

 

_“That was Highway 14. We were supposed to turn there.”_

__

 

_“This is a shortcut.”_

__

 

_Sam threw up his hands and slumped back in his seat, glowering. Dean alternated between watching the road and looking back at Sam. The glower didn’t go away._

__

 

_“Why have you been acting so weird?” Dean asked at last._

__

 

_“Weird how?”_

__

 

_“I don’t know. Weird moody. Like moodier than usual,” Dean elaborated._

__

 

_“I am not.”_

__

 

_“Yeah. Ever since that thing in Ohio.”_

__

 

_“I don’t know what you mean.” Sam turned further toward the window._

__

 

_“Sam…” Even if Sam was being a bitch about it, Dean had to at least try. “Is it what that demon said? About us? Do you think we’re damned because of—.”_

__

 

_“No,” Sam cut him off. “God no, Dean. How could you think that?”_

__

 

_Dean shrugged as if it was nothing, but the thought had been eating at him. If Sam wanted a change but didn’t know how to say so, Dean needed to give him a way out. “But something’s weird. What’s with the brooding, seriously?”_

__

 

_Sam didn’t say anything at first, but Dean knew to give him time. Eventually, he heaved a sigh. “I was just… thinking about the Petrellis. That’s all.” He blushed and slumped down in the passenger seat until his knees hit the dashboard._

__

 

_That was when Dean began to get ideas._

 

With a last smile and wave at the nurses, Dean and Nathan walked out of the building in silence and emerged onto the sunny street. Nathan steered them into a nook along the side of the building, out of the flow of pedestrians.

 

“What are you doing here?” Dean asked immediately.

 

“Working,” Nathan said coolly. “Where’s your husband?”

 

“Where’s yours?” Dean parried.

 

Nathan loosened his tie, managing to look somehow both more disheveled and more dignified. “If you came here to see that John Doe, we must be working the same case.”

 

“Yeah, and it’s our case!”

 

Nathan nodded thoughtfully. “You may be right about that.”

 

“Of course I’m right,” Dean said. It seemed a little paranoid to think that Nathan had agreed too easily, but this was one occasion when Dean was not going to look a gift horse in the mouth.

 

“Well. I guess I’ll leave you to it.” Nathan hesitated a moment, as if debating whether to say something further, but then he gave Dean a curt nod and strode away.

 

Dean was halfway down the block before he realized that Nathan had neglected to tell him anything about the autopsy.  
\--

 

The lock on the back door was easy to pick. Sam was pretty sure the house didn’t have an alarm system, but classy neighborhoods like this one had more than their share, so he didn’t begrudge a few extra minutes to double-check for any security controls. When he was finally sure that no rent-a-cop was going to burst in on him, he set out to explore the rest of the house.

 

In the living room, a framed picture caught his eye: it was a middle-aged couple standing in front of a giant, lit Ferris wheel. Sure enough, the woman was Jessica Kings, the crazy lady he and Dean had taken care of last night. The other guy must be her philandering husband, Brian. It seemed a bit strange to keep a picture of you and your ex-wife in your house, but that would just about jive with the crazy stuff they’d learned about this couple so far. Some people’s lives just didn’t bear examining too closely.

 

“Sam?”

 

Sam had dropped this picture, pulled out his gun out and pointed it all in the space of a heartbeat. It took him a few seconds to recognize the man who stood at the bottom of the stairs, hands up in surrender.

 

“Peter?”

 

“Yeah,” Peter said, lowering his hands as Sam lowered the gun. “Wow… You’re… Here.”

 

“So are you,” Sam said. He shoved the gun back into his waistband.

 

“Yeah, well we’re working a case.”

 

“So are we.”

 

“Um… I don’t suppose they might be different cases?” Peter ventured a hopeful smile that Sam did not find at all cute.

 

“Not unless you broke in here for reasons that have nothing to do with that Jane Doe they found in Wilmette.” Sam picked up the framed photo from the floor. Its glass was cracked, but he put it back on the mantle anyway.

 

“That’d be a no, then,” Peter said, and drifted further into the room. “So, any theories?”

 

“A few. I’ll know more when Dean gets back from the morgue.”

 

“That’s where Nathan is.”

 

“Great.” _And I can’t ask how he is. That would look weird. Or would it look weird not to ask. Well crap._ “If you don’t mind, I’d like to check out the house.”

 

“Go right ahead.” Peter stepped aside. “There’s a body up in the master bedroom.”

 

“Great.” Sam started up the stairs, and was surprised when Peter fell into step next to him.

 

“So how’ve you been?”

 

“I’m trying to work. Do you mind?” He wasn’t too happy to see Peter in the first place, and he certainly wasn’t in the mood for coffee klatch, even if he was more than mildly curious how Nathan was doing. If he was working a job, he must be fully recovered from his run-in with the demon. Or not. Sam knew how Dean behaved when he was injured: restless and too eager to get back into the fight. He imagined Nathan was the same way.

 

“At first I thought this was something Nathan and I had tangled with before,” Peter said, pushing open a door at the top of the stairs. “Brains missing and all. But now I’m not so sure.”

 

Sam suppressed a smug smile. He was positive this case was in the bag; it was just icing on the cake that Peter would be here when he got definitive proof. He wasn’t ready to admit to himself why it was so important to show up Peter. Instead, he went to examine the mess on the floor: man with his head ripped open, lots of blood. It was probably Brian Kings, but it was hard to tell, he was so mangled.

 

“It’s the defensive wounds that confused me,” Peter said from the doorway. “Whatever attacked this guy got up close and personal.”

 

Sam looked at the skin caught under Brian’s fingernails. “Uh huh. Looks like we were right.” Sam stood up and brushed his hands off on his jeans.

 

“So what was it?” Peter asked.

 

Sam loved this part. “Zombies.”

 

Peter stared at him. “Zombies.”

 

“Yep. Zombies. Reanimated corpses. The living dead.”

 

“Zombies.”

 

“Yeah. Dean and I took care of the zombie master—the uh, person who called the zombie—yesterday.” Sam shuddered and made a mental note never to cheat on anyone who would think to call up his dead lover to eat his brains. “I’ll bet you a hundred bucks that the John Doe the police are so quiet on has really been dead for weeks.”

 

“Zombies,” Peter repeated.

 

“Yep. So that about wraps things up here.” Sam stood and met Peter’s eyes. It was on the tip of his tongue to ask where Nathan was, ask if they wanted to go get a drink—no, drinking with Nathan was a bad idea; maybe just a bite to eat, then maybe back to Nathan’s hotel room to make out. Nathan certainly wasn’t the zombie-calling type. Totally safe to make out with him.

 

“Anything… _else_?” Peter asked.

 

_“Nathan this, Nathan that,” Dean mimicked. “If he’s so great, why don’t you go marry him?”_

__

 

_“You are seriously ten years old, Dean.” Sam took another bite of his short stack and waited for Dean to get this out of his system._

__

 

_“Nathan’s so organized. Nathan’s such a good researcher. Nathan has great taste. Nathan shits rainbows and puppies.”_

__

 

_“And yet, you never say a word about Peter.” Sam stabbed his fork into his pancakes with more violence than was strictly necessary. “Spent two weeks with the guy and don’t have anything to say about it. Why is that?”_

__

 

_“It just means I’m not completely annoying.”_

__

 

_“Or you’re trying to hide something,” Sam snapped. He’d taken enough of his brother’s crap on this topic. “Don’t worry, Dean. I already know.”_

__

 

_Dean hesitate, just a second, but enough to give himself away, before asking, “Know what?”_

__

 

_“We saw your motel room in Baltimore. It was pretty obvious what you two had been doing.”_

__

 

_Dean had a slick reply ready, Sam could tell, but he stopped himself. Instead, he looked down at his coffee and shrugged. “What do you want me to say?”_

__

 

_“Something,” Sam said. That was really the issue. If Dean had fessed up, then Sam could have come clean too. But there was no way in hell—or out of it—that Sam was going to break down before Dean. “I just want you to say something.”_

 

“Nope, nothing,” Sam said. “Zombies are taken care of.”

 

“Well, if you’re done with the job—,” Peter began.

 

“We’ll be moving on,” Sam said quickly. He couldn’t ask. He’d be a hypocrite after all that shit he gave Dean about Peter, so instead he tossed a, “See you around” over his shoulder as he fled the scene of the crime.  
\--

 

Dean hated the suburbs. Even if he was just trying to find his way back to the motel, he always got lost in a damn housing development and had to spend hours driving down twisty roads with names like “Hill Creek” and “Eagle Pond” and “Hickory Grove Mountain Forest Glen.” By the time he finally saw the gates of the development, he was so eager for freedom that he forgot to watch for pedestrians. When a man jumped out in front of his car, he barely slammed on the break in time to not make mincemeat of the dude.

 

“Watch it!” Dean shouted.

 

To his surprise, the guy came to the passenger side and opened the door to climb in. “Hey Dean.” It was Peter.

 

“You gave me a freaking heart attack,” Dean grumbled.

 

“Sorry,” Peter said, but he didn’t look sorry at all.

 

“I heard you were in town.”

 

“I saw your brother. At that house. Zombie victim and all.”

 

“Heh. Zombies. They’re so awesome.” At Peter’s skeptical look, he went on. “I mean, in a terrible, vicious way.”

 

“I talked to Nathan. He said that John Doe looked like it had been dead way longer than two days.”

 

“That’s what I thought,” Dean said, nodding sagely. So case closed. And damn he’d been ready to get out of Evanston, but if there was a reason to stay… Peter just watched him patiently. Dean had no idea what he was thinking, and that made him nervous. “So I’d say we’ve got everything wrapped up.”

 

“Sure,” Peter said quickly. “I’m supposed to meet Nathan at the library at five. He wanted to do some research while we were in town, helping a friend of ours with this list thing. That’s supposed to take a couple days.”

 

“Yeah well… Sam and I were probably heading out of town, so…”

 

_Dean watched Sam pick at his chow mien for two whole minutes before he tossed down his chopsticks in disgust. “Sammy, would you please stop pining?”_

__

 

_“Pining? I didn’t even know you knew that word.” Sam shoved the noodles around his plastic plate._

__

 

_“Ha ha. No, seriously. Do we need to get you a puppy or something? You look miserable.”_

__

 

_“No, I’m just…”_

__

 

_“Don’t say this is about me and Peter.”_

__

 

_“I wasn’t going to.”_

__

 

_“Okay then.” Dean endured another minute or so of noodle stirring. “You wanna… I dunno, call someone?”_

__

 

_“They don’t use phones. It’s this weird Big Brother technology thing.”_

__

 

_“Paranoid much?”_

__

 

_“Hey, if demons and vampires can exist,” Sam said vehemently, “I’m willing to believe there might be a disembodied woman working for a mysterious and evil Company who can intercept digital communication.”_

__

 

_“I guess. Taking a lot on faith there, Sammy.”_

__

 

_“Maybe so.”_

 

Peter reached for the door handle, then paused and turned back. “Hey, Dean? You have time for a little vacation?”

 

“Maybe. Why?”

 

“Well, I was thinking about our brothers.”  
\--

 

When Nathan walked out of the library at five after five, he was surprised to see Sam Winchester sitting on the front steps, brooding. He sat down on the step next to him, and Sam nodded in greeting. “Heard you were in town,” he said. “Where’s Peter?”

 

Sam muttered something indistinct.

 

“Come again?”

 

“They ditched us,” Sam grumbled. “Here.” He shoved a note into Nathan’s hand: a half-sheet of notebook paper decorated in Peter’s scrawl.

 

_Sam will be much better at researching all those genealogies. You know that’s where I’m useless. Dean wants my help tracking down some kind of flying monster in Duluth. We’ll see you back here on Sunday. Have fun. I mean it. Much love, Peter._

 

Nathan crumpled the note and shoved it in his pocket. “Dean leave you a note?”

 

Sam held up a cocktail napkin covered in chicken scratches. “Yep.”

 

“Son of a bitch,” Nathan said.

 

“You’ve gotta be careful saying that about your own brother.”

 

“Well, if the shoe fits.”

 

_“Nathan?” Peter pushed back further into the circle of Nathan’s arms, letting the sheets slide off his shoulder. “Can I ask you something?”_

__

 

_“Go ahead.”_

__

 

_“When we were apart… You know, when you were with Sam… Did anything happen?”_

__

 

_Nathan sighed, and he felt Peter tense. “I know about you and Dean. Is that why you’re asking?”_

__

 

_“No,” Peter said softly, and Nathan was glad they weren’t facing each other. “I knew you knew.”_

__

 

_“So why are you asking?”_

__

 

_“It just seemed like Sam…”_

__

 

_Now it was Nathan’s turn to tense up. Maybe he’d caught his mind wandering to Sam in the past few weeks, but he didn’t think he’d been too obvious. “Like he what?”_

__

 

_“Never mind. Are you pissed?”_

__

 

_Nathan pressed a kiss to the back of Peter’s neck. “Not really.” And that was true enough. He’d learned long ago how to deal with Peter’s excess of love. “But a little apology wouldn’t hurt.”_

__

 

_Peter turned in the circle of Nathan’s arms, and now his eyes were bright with mischief. “I think that could be arranged.”_

 

They sat there in silence for a moment, until Sam finally heaved a mighty sigh, pushed off the step, stretched, and turned back to Nathan. “So, diner?”

 

Nathan considered for a moment, and then he stood up. “No. No diner. No dive bar. No drive-through. If Dean and Peter want to take off and work their own case, they’re just going to have to miss out.” He strode off into the parking lot, and Sam followed. “Did Dean at least leave you clothes this time?”

 

With a puzzled expression, Sam hoisted his bulging backpack.

“I hope you packed a tie.” Nathan fished in his pocked for his keys. “We’re going to be civilized. Get in the car.”

 

“Which one’s yours?”

 

Nathan put his key in the door of a shiny black sedan. It took Sam a minute to recognize the model. “Is this an Impala?” he asked incredulously.

 

“It was Peter’s turn to choose,” Nathan grumbled. Even if he’d had to put up with endless complaining about how this Impala wasn’t nearly as nice as Dean’s Impala. Dean’s Impala had personality. Dean’s Impala purred. Dean’s Impala could get anybody’s pants off.

 

“Well, it’s no Bentley, but it could be considered civilized,” Sam offered.

 

Nathan didn’t have a response to that, but he was secretly pleased that Sam approved. Nathan slid into the driver’s seat, and popped the locks for Sam. “Dinner at Trio. The food there is supposed to be amazing. Tomorrow we can take in the Art Institute. Or maybe the Natural History Museum. What do you think?”

 

“Aren’t we supposed to be doing genealogy research?” Sam asked, tossing his backpack into the back seat.

 

“Yes. But it’s certainly not time sensitive. The archives will be here next Monday.” Nathan felt almost giddy with the possibility of playing hooky. “Besides, Peter isn’t too clear on the process. When he gets back, I’ll just tell him I’m not done. Then he’ll _have_ to help, the weasely little bastard.”

 

“Huh.” Sam settled back in his seat. “Dean and Peter planned this somehow, didn’t they.”

 

When Nathan stopped to think about it, and about his previous conversations with Peter, he’d have to give his brother credit for being a pushy little matchmaker. “I’d say that’s a given, yes.”

 

“Jerks.”  
\--

 

Dean plopped down next to Peter where he sat on the swing on the porch of the Homestead Hotel. “You think they’re naked yet?” Dean asked, propping his feet up on the porch railing.

 

Peter looked at his watch. “Nah. Nathan’s a wine and dine sort of guy. I’d estimate midnight.”

 

They watched the sun creep lower over Lake Michigan for a few minutes, and then Dean turned in mock-horror to Peter. “Well, we don’t have to wait until then, do we?”

 

“Nope.” Peter stood and pulled Dean out of the swing. Hooking his fingers under Dean’s belt buckle, he led him slowly back into their room, and kicked the door shut behind them.

 

 

END.

* * *

  
[ Bonus Features Menu!](http://brighteyed-jill.livejournal.com/23383.html#cutid1) A crack!porn alternate ending, soundtrack, deleted scenes, and author’s notes. [Or, if you're feeling naughty, go straight for the [crack!porn](http://brighteyed-jill.livejournal.com/23383.html#crackporn).]

OR, go check out the missing Nathan/Sam scene (totally hot), [Civilized](http://jaune-chat.livejournal.com/18974.html) by [](http://jaune-chat.livejournal.com/profile)[**jaune_chat**](http://jaune-chat.livejournal.com/). You won't be sorry.  


* * *

  
Oh yeah, and now there's also a sequel, co-written with [](http://jaune-chat.livejournal.com/profile)[**jaune_chat**](http://jaune-chat.livejournal.com/) : [My Brothers' Keepers](http://brighteyed-jill.livejournal.com/53661.html)  


* * *


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